Devlin Potter: The Riddle and Rescue (Part One)
by GingeredTea
Summary: In a raid on Harry Potter's house, Voldemort kidnaps Harry's son. He means to kill him, but the boy looks nothing like a Potter and entirely too much like him as a child. AU, Cliche-less, and dark, actual blood ties to Voldemort. Devlin is rescued, but after all this time with Voldemort the child feels it is more like he has been kidnapped and held hostage at the Potter's house.
1. The Picture of a Boy

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original characters found in the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling owns these characters. This will hold true for all further chapters of this story. **

***A/N* This story is being edited to change one fact. Devlin Potter is now six when we start the story and 9 (almost 10) when he is 'rescued'. Please be patient with me as I go through the existing chapters and change this. :) **

So, here we go:

_The end is like the beginning – uncertain._

**Prologue: The-Boy-Who-Was-Lost**

Devlin Potter felt remarkably _empty_ as the cool air hit his face.

At that moment, he didn't care that he was being dragged across the ground by the arm that he had moments ago been unable to move, or that there were more of those masked men here. It felt good to _see. _It felt good to breathe in air that didn't smell of blood and sweat and _fear_.

The man dragging him no longer wore his mask, his blonde hair glittering under the starry night. He dragged him into a large tent filled with more masked men, all standing quietly by the edges, looking at one man seated in the center.

"Here is the boy, my Lord," the blonde man said, his fingers still digging into the back of Devlin's neck, forcing him to look at the ground. Devlin was half aware that he would have collapsed if the man let go.

"This is Potter's boy?" Devlin squeezed his eyes closed against the nausea. The blonde man hadn't liked it when he had thrown up on his shoes and if the blonde man was afraid of this man ('_you want to cry now - you just wait until you meet the Dark Lord')_...Devlin swallowed again, fighting the bile back down. It seared at his raw throat.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Well, let go of him, Draco," the man said, a kind of curiosity at the edges of his voice that sent a shiver up Devlin's spine.

The blonde man threw him down and Devlin crashed to his knees onto the stone floor with an unpleasant sound. Even on his knees with his eyes closed, he felt his world sway. The cold floor sent a chill up his entire body and the last-minute healing prickled unpleasantly on his skin, hiding the bruises that he still felt deep in his bones.

He flexed the muscles in his neck slightly, feeling the bruise from the man's grasp but also feeling his freedom from the constraint. It felt as if it had been forever since he had been able to move his body anyway he pleased. He twisted his neck a bit, still keeping the floor in view.

Instinct told him to keep his head bowed, but something else urged him to look up and see the danger. _His father would want to see the danger_...so Devlin raised his eyes to those he felt boring most into him. They were red, darker than a flame, colder then the blood that had moments ago been dripping down the side of his face.

"Do you know where you are?" The red-eyed man's voice was clipped and slightly uninterested; he twirled his wand gracefully across his fingertips, inviting the concern of when, and to whom, it might strike. Devlin realized that he had been right to defy instinct; this man was disgusted by weakness. Devlin's internal instincts, driven by the amber eyes that lurk behind his green, shift to accommodate this realization.

"The center of your plots?" His father had often spoken about this man's plots and how he always found himself at the center of them.

"One could say that," he said, the tip of his lip twitching into a feature that followed all the right movements of a 'smile' but resembled no smile Devlin had ever seen. He continued to twirl the wand, the movement now more absent than purposeful. "Do you know my name?'

Devlin did not know much about this man; his father did not like Devlin listening to 'grown up' conversations and it was always a grown up conversation when this man was brought up. Still, Devlin could not suppress a feeling of triumph, because his father had always made it a point that Devlin knew this man's _real name_. Maybe it was the answer he wanted but did not expect Devlin to know. He stood up.

When the blonde man had looked at him for the first time properly he had called Devlin 'worthless'. Devlin had been on the floor screaming, at the time. He hadn't known the word, but he knew what 'worth' and 'less' meant, and he had sensed that when the man had put them both together he had meant something about Devlin wasn't 'good enough'.

So he had to do better with this man. He would do everything right and maybe this man would see that Devlin was _worth_ something.

"Tom Riddle," he said confidently, his whole body shaking with the anticipation that they would be impressed with his knowledge.

The red eyes flickered, the twirling wand stopped, and his mouth became straight and pale. Now Devlin was looking into the tip of Voldemort's wand like a Muggle would a gun's barrel.

"Crucio," the red-eyed man whispered. He watched with detached interest as the child's eyes widened with pain.

Right before Voldemort was preparing for his favorite part (the screaming), a resolve settled in the child and his legs locked in position, keeping him upright on his feet.

A tiny frown smoothed down the edges of Voldemort's tight sneer as curiosity and interest sparked in his mind. He let the curse continue, waiting with mounting amusement for the scream. His eyes took in every expression of the boy's pain; from his hands balled into firsts to the bottom lip that he had chewed so hard it was bleeding now.

"Does it hurt?" He asked the boy, with that smile, cruel and filled with something Devlin could not name, spreading across his features.

Even in his chaotic, rapidly deteriorating thoughts, Devlin knew the man _wanted_ it to hurt. Devlin knew the word for this. Cruel. His mum had told him that cruelty was no way to get what you wanted, ever.

So Devlin would be stubborn and he wouldn't give this man what he wanted.

The pain was everywhere now, but he knew he would be alright, because any moment now, his magic would spring to life inside of him and make it _stop_. His magic always made things stop that he didn't like.

"Nothingness is but a moment away... Beg for my mercy; beg for the forgiveness of your father's enemy." He clenched his teeth so hard that he felt the bones crushing into each other. The pain was rising and now every single inch of his body was on fire.

He could feel the magic on his skin and in his mind, but it wasn't _doing _anything. It wasn't making it stop. It wasn't protecting him! The magic felt _trapped _beneath his skin, unable to fully materialize. The pain had surpassed even the pain he remembered from transformations, and he finally allowed his legs to give beneath him. He could not keep his head up and his legs straight at the same time.

There was a sharpness at the edges of his mind that he hadn't felt in a long time. He took medicine to make it stay away. To keep him from being 'wolfish'.

_Don't look away, _the sharp feeling edge commanded, intruding upon his own thoughts. It made his head ache and he shook violently.

"I can stop the pain." He taunted, flicking the wand so that the spell intensified. "All you must do is ask." Those red eyes remained firmly clear yet, around Devlin, everything else was blurring. He swayed on his knees. Even if Devlin had wanted to ask, he couldn't have. He was screaming inside of his own head, unable to move so much as a muscle to let the sound out. He stopped urging his magic and to his relief, the pain began to dim.

Devlin wasn't quite sure where any part of his body was. He couldn't see anything but the red eyes of the monster. There was a buzzing in his head. He might even have been able to fall asleep, except that the sharp thing in his head wouldn't let him.

_NO!_ It growled in his mind, snarling and fighting and _making him fight again_.

His magic gave a great heave against the suffocating horrible _thing_ around him. It was as if his body came alive again - and was able to feel the pain. It was like the time Devlin had touched the stove at Uncle Sirius' house, except upon every inch of his body and down to his bones. He no longer felt as if he could fall asleep.

"I wonder what Potter shall think when he sees your body, the mark burned into your arm?" He was trying to be cruel again, to make Devlin _hurt_, but Devlin already hurt and the words fell past him without much meaning. "What will he think of himself, letting a six year old be captured right inside his own house?"

Even those red eyes were blurring, rocking in and out of focus.

"Do you think he will guess my weapon? My tool of choice?" He looked up suddenly, as if he has been reading a speech and were just appraising the audience's reactions.

"Come now, you must be as bored as I. Scream so we may get this part over with."

The temptation was bright, but it quickly dulled. What part was next? He was certain he didn't want to know.

Besides, there was an almost pleasant feeling inside of his head now and Devlin much preferred to ignore the bad man in favor of this _something_. It sounded like wind rushing through grass and there was the smell of a crisp summer day. Something was waiting for him there.

Devlin Potter fell to the floor.

Voldemort almost smirked, except that those green eyes, shades darker than the boy's father's, were still starting at him from the floor.

Eventually Voldemort grew impatient, but there were eyes on him and to lift the curse would be seen as weakness. To be outdone by a Potter... He held more firmly to his wand and urged more of his magic into the spell. The boy's lip was bleeding more now, his entire body racked with convulsions. His back arched, but his his dark green eyes remained on Voldemort, intense even in his pain.

When they finally closed, slow and softly, Voldemort was sure the boy was dead. He rose from his chair just to be certain. On his way to the body, he felt a pang of disappointment that the child had gone and died so easily - Voldemort had wanted to make him scream.

_Breathing. _

The child was breathing.

"Heal him," Voldemort ordered, smiling sadistically. "I want to make him scream."

O~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~oO~o~O~o

Harry Potter was no longer so Golden. He was a man who had loved and lost, won brilliantly and failed miserably, felt an inch away from death and a mile above Heaven. Yet there was one thing that had never changed: Harry Potter hated Death Eaters. Sometimes he thought he hated them more than he hated Voldemort, because each had a choice and all the hundreds of them chose to be on the side of evil.

It was with this hate in his blood that he spun around to face one of them. Harry thought he hated them the most in battle - when their curses and taunts created a strange, pounding anger in his chest that made him want to lash out at them, controlled only by the knowledge that around him his team felt the same.

"If you're going to fight me, curse me to my face," he shouted, stalking towards the masked man. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of surprise and regret cross the man's eyes, but he shook the idea from his head. If there was regret it was simply because he was afraid of losing to Harry. If there was surprise then it was only because he hadn't known he'd been up against _Harry Potter. _

Harry would make him regret it - he always did.

"Alarte Ascendare!"

The Death Eater flew high into the air, landing hard some distance away. Harry raced after the fallen man. He might have left him there, his head bleeding, his eyes closed with unconsciousness, except that another Death Eater would simply rescue him and Harry wouldn't let _that _happen.

He kicked the Death Eater onto his stomach and bound his hands behind his back with specialized cuffs that would stop anyone but an Auror from moving him. He looked for one more moment at the fallen man, his face now in the dirt, and scowled.

He hated them. He wanted to do to them as they had done to others, but he knew he couldn't. Harry Potter wasn't supposed to want to touch such spells with a ten foot pole, even if it was to torture Death Eaters.

The thought always proved to him, over and over again, how far he had traveled from innocence.

It was more beneficial to the cause to be Golden Potter than to follow through on his desires. People trusted him, people believed him - and it made things easier. Harry Potter wasn't so Golden anymore, but he was still as much a Hero as ever.

Suddenly, another Death Eater landed next to his captive, but this one had been levitated much more gently. Ron came up beside him, his captive already bound.

"We're almost done here. We're rounding the stranglers up - they're not really strong."

"It is always the weak ones left over," Harry said, turning around to eye his team as they captured, bound, and lined the remaining conscious Death Eaters up.

In a moment they would begin to walk down the queue of Death Eaters and remove their mask. Harry paused, knowing fully he should be the one to do that job, but also knowing it was his least favorite responsibility. He did not like walking down the line and pulling the skull-like mask from each of their faces, to reveal the human behind it - the human who could not be human at all to have done such heartless acts.

"I'll do it," Ron offered, and before Harry could argue otherwise, Ron had walked off towards the team and the Death Eaters.

There were still these two men, too badly injured to wake up with a spell. Behind him, his team was searching each Death Eater's person after removing their mask. He could hear them, disapperating the prisoners one at time. Harry crouched down before these two men and did the same, but left their masks on. He pried their wands from their hands and then moved on to search the pockets of their robes.

In one mans robe he found a small folded piece of paper, blank on both sides. He would have simply thrown it aside, except that Hermione had drilled into his head over the years to always test such things with a revealing spell. So he did.

Colored ink rose up onto the surface of the paper, swirling around until a picture formed. A picture of a boy, lying still on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth limp. There was a bruise on the cheek facing the camera.

Harry hardly ever froze anymore in shock - he was always too afraid to stop. Right now, he felt like he might have stopped breathing, or perhaps his heart had finally decided it had had enough.

He wanted to close his eyes. To hide from the photo of the boy he had once known, loved, and lost. _Devlin. _His son.

Harry lunged for the man as emotions, so all-consuming that he didn't think he could ever identify them, exploded inside of himself and sent his magic on edge, humming all around him. He was crouched over the man now, his wand pointed at his skull. The Healers wouldn't want him woken, but Harry didn't care at the moment. He cast the spell, sure he had his son's murderer in his grasp.

His eyes were like stained glass of blue and gold, each equally light, each just as striking.

"My wand is against you neck," Harry said, deadly, when the Death Eater dared to try and move away. Those blue and gold eyes, still unfocused and dazed, found his green.

"I'm not fighting," the Death Eater said, but Harry ignored him. Harry wasn't the Hero right now and he wasn't about to play by the rules. Of this, he was certain, the Wizarding World would understand. And if they didn't - well fuck them.

Far behind him Harry could hear Ron's faint shout of "Harry! Stop!" and his running footsteps, but Harry didn't care. He had his son's murderer...finally.

"I don't care," he said, his voice soft, as if they were simply having a conversation. It was only when Harry felt this all-consuming rage that he was ever able to speak like this. An oddness bloomed in his chest and his magic always flared. "All I care about is the photo from your robe."

Ron was nearer now, and Harry struck his wand through the air, erecting a barrier that Ron couldn't pass. He wasn't about to be interrupted.

The Death Eater's eyes were still dazed, but for a brief moment, he seemed to gain enough self-awareness to look confused. Harry grabbed him by his robe neck, dragging him upward. With his wand hand, Harry unfolded the paper, intending to show the little boy, so clearly dead in the photo, to the man.

Green, like the color of forest foliage in the early evening, met his eyes. Harry froze. The boy's eyes had opened. For one flickering moment, Harry felt something he hadn't in a long time: _hope_.

The oddness in his chest crept away as it always did when he felt at all happy, and as it did, so did the humming magic. Ron stumbled, having been trying to ram through the now gone shields. Before he could reach them, however, Harry grabbed onto the Death Eater and disappeared.

He reappeared in front of Sirus' house.

He knew he couldn't go to the Ministry, not when he didn't intend to follow the rules and he knew he couldn't go home - not with Emma and Alexandra there. He dragged the Death Eater up the front walkway. If there was one thing Harry had gotten good at during the war, it was traveling with Death Eaters.

"Harry?" Sirius called down from the upper floor. His wards would have told him it was Harry, plus one, to have come through. Harry waited for Sirius to reach him, who paused mid-step on the last stair. "Harry?"

"May I?" Harry asked, gruffly.

"I-"

Harry unclenched his wand hand and sent the photo over to Sirius with a simple spell. Sirius caught the object and his own eyes turned into ice.

"Lets use the office," he said, leading the way. Harry secured the Death Eater to a chair, his cuffs still in place, and then he began to pace. The Death Eater was looking around, infuriatingly calm. Harry's all consuming rage was gone and now reason was seeping into his thoughts, making him pause.

"Tell me about that photo," Harry commanded, his hands on either side of the chair, his body leaning forward, too close for the Death Eater to be comfortable. But uncomfortable or not, he didn't breath a word.

"I can be cruel too, you know," he growled, pointing his wand at the Death Eater. He pulled the mask off, roughly, to reveal the human. He had dark hair that fell into his blue and gold eyes. His face was angular and handsome. Harry had never seen him before.

"Anyone can be cruel, Mr. Potter," the Death Eater said, his voice oddly raspy.

"I can use any curse I'd like - no one will come and save you."

The Death Eater blinked calmly.

"He will try, but I am sure you have brought me somewhere outside of his grasp."

"He never rescues Death Eaters like you - if you were important at all, we'd know you already."

The Death Eater actually chuckled.

"You think too little of me, Mr. Potter," he said simply, leaning back in the chair to give the appearance of comfort. "Obviously I am important to you and if I am important to you, don't you think I am equally important to him?"

"Tell me about the photo," Harry demanded, jabbing the man with his wand and whispering a shock hex. The Death Eater leapt in his chair at the hex, all appearances of comfort gone.

"Which photo?"

Harry growled with impatience and anger, but grabbed the photo from Sirius to show the Death Eater. The boy's eyes were closed and Harry felt that hopelessness consume him again - perhaps he had simply dreamed the green eyes.

"Ah, that photo," he paused, as if considering, as his eyes scoured the little photograph. Then, abruptly, he looked away, beyond the piece of paper. "Tell me about your photo first," he said instead, his eyes motioning to the picture Alexandra had ordered for Sirius' birthday years ago, settled atop Sirius' desk. Harry had almost forgotten about the photo. Emma was still a baby in the photo, being held by Alexandra. Harry and Sirius' were leaning together at the shoulders, Harry's other arm around Alexandra's waist. In front of Harry and Sirius was a grinning little boy with dark hair and forest green eyes. Devlin.

Harry pushed the photo down onto the desk so that the Death Eater could no longer see the picture. No Death Eater deserved to see Harry like _that. _This Death Eater didn't deserve to see his Devlin again. He turned back to the man, more furious than before. He was just about to threaten him again, when he spoke.

"He looked happy there - I'd never seen him look happy like that."

Harry's blood turned to ice.

"Happy? Why would he be happy? You tortured him and killed him! When would he have been happy?" Harry rasped out, barely able to speak through his suddenly constricted throat. "Why did you have his photo?"

"I can't remember," the man said, attempting and failing to shrug. Harry wanted to punch him.

"Then think harder," Harry said, getting close again, "or I'll make you remember with a couple drops of truth serum!"

There was silence between them while Harry remained mere inches from the Death Eater's face.

"It was a long time ago. I do not recall when it was taken or why it was taken."

Harry saw red. Recall when it was taken? There was only a week and a half in which it could have been taken! His son was killed.

"I took it from another Death Eater," the Death Eater said after a moment of staring into space. "He wasn't supposed to have it at all."

"Why not?"

"I cannot say. Such would be a discussion of direct orders that were revealed under confidence..." Which meant Voldemort, or some other Death Eater had made him take an oath. An oath about his son. He felt the ice prickle beneath his skin like a thousand little needles.

"Then tell me something you can!" Harry demanded. For a long moment the Death Eater simply stared at him.

"He wasn't dead, when it was taken," the Death Eater finally said. "Isn't that what you wanted me to tell you?"

Harry had almost believed he had dreamed it the first time, but when he looked again, those forest green eyes were staring up, wide open...blinking. Harry brushed his thumb over the little boy's face. His son...perhaps days or hours or minutes before his death.

"So this was before you killed him..."

For a long moment the Death Eater simply stared at him, the intensity of his regard disturbing and oddly familiar to Harry. Then, slowly, the Death Eater let out a long sigh.

"Prove to me that he is yours," he said slowly, cautiously. Harry almost punched him. Prove Devlin was his? But something in the man's eyes kept his hand on the side of the chair, instead. "And I will tell you about what happened to him."

"Prove it?" Sirius rasped out, aghast.

"Yes," the Death Eater said, as if he were protecting a secret that he wasn't about to entrust to just anyone. As if Harry's proof was his cost for betraying Voldemort. Harry stared hard at him, knowing he shouldn't prove anything to this man - he was the one in control, but also feeling desperate enough to do anything it would take. "His eyes, Mr. Potter," the Death Eater said after a while, as if he were trying to tell something to Harry.

"How do you want me to prove it?" He asked carefully, his voice dead, his hand trembling around the photo.

"With a memory," he said softly. "Sometime when you felt love for the boy, deeply."

"There are far more accurate ways than that," Harry cut back. He didn't want this man, who had possibly murdered his son, to see his baby boy _again_.

"_The Dark Lord_ is strong enough to manipulate magic," the Death Eater rasped nervously, "but there is one thing he cannot grasp well enough to manipulate at all." His eyes roamed around the room and he swallowed hard. "He doesn't understand love. Prove to me that the boy is yours and prove to me that you are who you _appear to be_."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the Death Eater - he seemed smarter than most Death Eaters. He was worried that Harry wasn't actually Harry? He also seemed to know Voldemort more than most...meaning he spent a lot of time around the man. It was the only reason that he would feel Voldemort would take the time to _trick him_.

Harry nodded curtly and flicked his gaze up at Sirius.

"I have a Pensieve in the library," he said and went to fetch the devise. Harry and the Death Eater stared silently at each other until he returned.

He could have picked any memory with his son in it, because Harry was certain he had loved the boy deeply every minute he had been around him, but he chose a memory in which Devlin looked most like the boy in the photo - just so there wouldn't be any confusion. He shivered as he pulled it out of his mind, like he was losing part of himself.

It spread across the still surface of the Pensieve slowly, seeping downward. Harry turned to the Death Eater and yanked him upward, shoving him hard into the memory, then he went as well.

_The Death Eater wasn't bound in the __Pensieve - __he flexed his hands as the liquid memory built around them, half muted colors and eerily sharp sounds. They were in the hallway at Godric's hallow, the memory Harry standing before them. He was hanging up his coat after work. _

"_Daddy?" It was Devlin's voice, coming from the kitchen. Both Harry's smile. The Death Eater's eyes widened as if in recognition. _

"_In the hallway, Devlin," the memory Harry called out, and all of a sudden there was the drumming of quick little feet. _

_Harry watched the Death Eater as his brow furrowed, watching the boy. Trying to tell if he was the real Devlin, it seemed. Meanwhile the little boy has thrown himself at his father, his hands covered with flour and what looked suspiciously like frosting on the tip of his nose. _

"_Daddy - I need to tell you something!" _

"_Alright...but have you been baking?"_

"_It's a secret, Daddy," the little boy cheered, pulling himself up on Harry's chest until his little lips were by his ear. "I learned a new trick," he whispered, as if it were the most wonderful secret in the world. The __Pensieve__ made the boys words loud enough for them both to hear. _

_Harry's green gaze went to the kitchen doorway, where Alexandra was waiting, obviously eager to see Harry's reaction to their son's 'trick' as well. _

_Harry kissed Devlin's nose, taking away the frosting and pretending not to have heard about a trick. _

"_Oh, that is good frosting. Did you make it? Is that cake I smell?" _

"_Yes, with Mummy," the boy said, waving his hand dismissively. "But that's not important," he added, nodding soberly. "My trick is better." _

"_I donno, Devlin...you know how I love cake." Harry tickled the boy a bit, but he didn't giggle, instead he bit the inside of his cheek, determined to remain sober-faced until Harry gave his 'trick' the attention it deserved. _

"_Maybe my trick is about cake," he said, his little face scrunching up in his impersonation of annoyance. The Death Eater smiled here and the real Harry almost hauled him out of the memory by his throat, but he made himself calm down. _

"_Oh, you didn't tell me that!" Harry cheered, bouncing the boy a bit. _

"_That's because I told you it was better," he said and his eyes rolled just how Sirius' did whenever one of his jokes had been ignored. _

"_I was just teasing you Devlin," Harry said finally, ruffling the boys hair and kissing his cheek. "I really do want to see your trick. I bet it's way better than the cake." _

"_Your teasing takes up too much time," Devlin said with a pout, but then he was wiggling to be put down and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You ready?"_

"_Yup." _

"_You swear? Uncle Sirius said he was ready but then he fell down. You're not gonna fall down, are you?" _

"_Nope." _

_Devlin motioned for Harry to get closer to him, so Harry crouched down in the hallway and watched as Devlin cupped his hands together and then blew into them. Magic. _

_Even in his memory, Harry could remember the exact way Devlin's magic had felt. It had been sharper and cleaner than all his accidental magic and more beautiful than anything Harry had ever felt. _

_When the child opened his hands, there was a lily settled in his palms, shimmering. Even now, watching the memory, Harry swallows hard and tries to hold back his tears. _

"_I made you a special lily flower since you always look sad at regular ones," he said sweetly, coming up to him so that the flower was right below Harry's chin. _

"_Oh, Devlin," he had said, breathless. The Death Eater was looking intently at the little boy, frowning. Harry kept his regard on the Death Eater, knowing if he looked at his son now, he would cry. The memory was full of love, so deeply that it saturated the __Pensieve environment. _

"_Mummy said it was Grandma's birthday today, so I told her we had to have a party. Will you come see all of my lilies, Daddy?" _

_Harry allowed the child to pull him towards the kitchen. There were shimmering lilies everywhere - in Emma's hair, one dancing before her as she giggled, on the table, floating above the table, and on the cake. Sirius and Remus were settled at the table too. _

_Without a word, Harry lifted the boy and simply held him close, breathing into his hair and hiding his tears of joy and pride and love. _

The Pensieve swirled into emptiness and released them. Harry glared at the Death Eater.

"Is that enough proof?" Harry sneered.

"He was so happy," the Death Eater said, breathless and oddly taken aback. "He looked like such a child..."

"He _was_ a child. Just a little boy, who didn't know anything about death or torture!" This was Sirius, his blue eyes ablaze. Sometimes Harry thought that Sirius and he were the worst off, never completely able to move beyond Devlin's death.

"I proved it - now you tell me what you know," Harry said, his voice hard and unyielding.

The Death Eater licked his lips and swallowed. He pulled himself up straighter in his chair, an awkward gesture since his hands were still bound behind him.

"I wasn't there...when they tortured him," he began softly. "But...I heard...that he wouldn't scream. Even under Crucio, he refused to scream." He fidgeted. Harry collapsed against the desk. Sirius hid his face behind a hand. "When he passed out...the Dark Lord thought he was dead, but he wasn't and he said 'heal the boy, I want to make him scream.' It took months for the boy to heal-"

Harry felt his heart quicken as his head realized an impossibility with the man's words.

"and it was while he was healing that I met him first. He was a strange boy - he said he was six, but he might have been seven or eight. He introduced himself as Devlin, but then said that wasn't his real name and he was looking for a new one. He always knew what you wanted to hear, but he didn't always say it. He would watch you and you felt like he was memorizing you - and he was. He could copy things - behaviors, spells, words, accents...anything. If he saw it, he could do it. He...he impressed the Dark Lord."

"You're lying," Harry broke in, before he let himself believe the man's words. "Devlin was killed within two weeks of his arrival...we buried the body he sent back."

The Death Eater looked up at him and there was a sadness in his eyes that Harry did not expect to see looking back at him from such a person.

"Yes, you buried a body," the Death Eater said, "but not your sons."


	2. Only Blood

The Death Eater was almost certain Harry Potter and Sirius Black's hearts skipped at least three beats. Tangling in the tension and uncertainty of the room, the Death Eater could sense hope, but it was unlike hope one might have expected, because these men have learned hope is more a symbol of fighting that others can recognize and cling to, than a true emotion. It was a bitter sort of hope, lingering in the air like the sweet-scent from a hidden sleep potion steaming up from a cup of tea. He waited in silence.

"What's your name?" Potter asked suddenly, throwing the Death Eater aback, who hadn't been anticipating _that_ question.

"Geoffrey," he said softly, cautious.

"Well _Geoffrey, _now it's your god damn turn to 'prove it'!" Potter's magic, seeping from him, was deep and calm; Geoffrey was reminded of the boys own magic when he hasn't decide if he is furious or not. Potter's voice is demanding and intimidating - Geoffrey has opened a door that can lead either to his safety, because of the importance of his information, or death, because he would be the one person in Harry Potter's grasp who had aided in the imprisonment of Devlin Potter.

"Tell me how." Either way, he didn't want to die here and now, tied up and defenseless. Geoffrey was walking on the edge of a velvet-covered knife.

"Give me evidence," Potter whispers fiercely. "Prove to me that St. Mungo's best staff are inept at identifying a _dead_ body." There was anger in Potter's eyes, pushing aside the hope. His magic had one difference from the boys - it did not lash out, instead it began to boil and unfurl slowly, billowing out around him like steam.

"I have betrayed him already," Geoffrey whispered, leaning as close to Harry Potter as his restraints would allow. "I have no evidence to provide that would satisfy you. If I showed you my memories you would accuse me of creating them. If I make an oath of truth you will say that I have nothing to lose and therefore, why should I not risk death? As you can see, I have no way to assure you completely, Mr. Potter. At the same time...you have no way to completely prove I am lying." Geoffrey was a man who had grown up knowing about distrust from the moment he had become a werwolf, surrounded by old-blood wizarding society. It had made it necessary for him to be especially good at the art of manipulation and persuasion. Right now Potter's weakness was the idea that he might have given up on a child who had never really died - had never stopped _needing _him. Doubt had entered his mind and it was to Geoffrey's benefit to keep him from burying his doubt.

"Nevertheless, you will do both." Finality settled forebodingly in Potter's voice. Geoffrey mastered the urge to swallow - Potter was not taking the bait as eagerly as Geoffrey had hoped. "How did you know Devlin?"

"I am his Guard." Potter's head tipped slightly and he dragged in a breath of air. Black's eyes go wide. Neither of them suspected his position. It had its advantages, Geoffrey was aware.

"And what, exactly, do you guard him against? It can't be those disease infected Death Eaters – you're one as well!" Black spat, his eyes wild for a moment. Geoffrey could see the hauntedness in them that he recognized as exposure to Dementors. He held back his temper and found the will to smile.

"I was ordered to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from angry Death Eaters who had no rank to harm him, and from himself. I have never received an order that would put him in mortal harm. Another Death Eater, myself included, has never been allowed to harm him." He worded himself carefully; he knew neither truths nor lies must escape him in this room. The ground was fragile beneath his feet and he must make it to more stable earth. Alive.

"Mortal danger, how informing!" Black sneered. Potter was quiet next to him. "There's a lot you can do to a person without placing them in mortal danger!"

"You said from himself?" Potter's voice was soft and uncertain. Geoffrey found uncertainty sat unwell in Potter's eyes; like a great illness that you feared would infect the world. He wondered if he would feel the same, should uncertainty present itself in Voldemort, but decided it was a worthless question; Voldemort was either incapable or to calculated to show the emotion.

"So far as the child informed me, he was not bitten by one of the Dark Lord's werewolves." Potter's jaw clenched, but he nodded. There were not many werewolf children in the world. It was rare that a grown werewolf desire to bite a child. This excluded, of course, the werewolves Voldemort kept merely because of their extremism. They were usually stupid and more than half insane. He kept them to kill. Geoffrey avoided them when possible and the boy won't step foot near them, even if his caretaker must.

"No, Devlin was bitten when he was very young." So honest. So brutally honest - even to his enemies face. The boy had never been willing to tell him how he was bitten. Truth be told, Geoffrey knew it had been before his capture from the healed wounds, not from the boy. Potter could have remained silent, or lied, but he told the truth. And now Geoffrey hated him. Hated him more then he ever did as a Death Eater. Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Head Auror, had not protected his child from a werewolf. He wanted to lunged forward and pin him to the wall. But he won't. Survival reigns higher than even the beast within.

Silence fell between them. Potter fiddled with the hem of his Auror robes and Black with a ring on his finger. Geoffey sighed.

Potter was too human. Voldemort was too inhuman. The boy was too unchildlike. Geoffrey would like to know who or what chose the destiny of the powerful. But he never will, so he sighed again.

"When...when did you become his Guard?"

"When the Dark Lord moved to the camp I was stationed at, he supposedly also brought a boy with him, that we weren't to harm, but none of us had yet to see him. A week in, he took me aside and told me that on the full moons he would be introducing a boy to transform with us-"

"You're a werwolf?" Black asked.

"Yes... so I met the boy once, directly before the full moon. He didn't speak at all to me. He was gone when we all woke up. The Dark Lord didn't want us speaking to him, I think. I saw him next a week before the following full moon. He snuck into a meeting, where he wasn't meant to be, and the Dark Lord ordered me to take him away, back to his tent. It was then, I suppose, that my official assignment began."

"And now?" Potter's gaze was half unfocused and Geoffrey wondered if the question had partly been for himself.

"Now what, Mr. Potter?" Geoffrey asked, his voice calm like he were talking to the boy.

"Now what is he like?" He finally asked, slumping against the desk.

Geoffrey frowned, more fearful of this question than any other Potter had asked. What did Potter expect a boy to be like who had spent four years with the Dark Lord? He couldn't possibly expect to have that little innocent boy back, could he? But Potter was too human and even though Geoffrey could see reason in his eyes, he could also see an unwillingness to yield for that reason. His brain knew he wouldn't get that boy back, but his heart wasn't ready to let the boy go. Geoffrey swallowed. He was the last one who would survive through telling Potter's heart to catch up with his brian.

"Right now?" He drew in a breath. "Right now he is probably pacing in his room, wondering where I have been."

"That's not what-" but Potter never finished, because there was the distinct sound of the front door opening. Sirius and Potter had their wands out before a moment could flicker past, and in the next moment Geoffrey was being hauled towards a closet, pushed inside, and told to "stay quiet" before his world became...nothing. Potter had obviously not trusted him - Geoffrey had heard the slight fizzle of a silencing charm, and there did not appear to be any muggle means of lighting inside the closet (not that Geoffrey could have reached it, either way). He sat for a long time in the darkness, with only musty old cloaks and his thoughts to keep him company. Thoughts about the boy.

What was the boy worth?

He had seen plainly how much Potter cared for the boy, but he also knew Potter hadn't protected him. Potter had given up on him and Geoffrey couldn't imagine how anyone who knew Devlin could ever simply give up. To Geoffrey it didn't matter that they had been sent a body that had probably passed all sorts of identity spells. They wouldn't have believed it if Voldemort had sent them Harry Potter's body - how could they believe it about the child?

Suddenly there were a pair of piercing blue eyes looking down at him, the owner silhouetted by the onslaught of light.

"You're the Death Eater, hm?" Her voice was clipped and impatient. She used magic to pull him out of the closet and magic to make him stand upright. It felt a bit like the boy's - possessive, steady, and quick. She smelled like Potter. "Did you hear me, or have they already given you too much truth serum?"

He looked up into her intense regard, feeling as if she were summing him up: his worth, his honesty, his age, his health - everything.

"I'm the Death Eater, yes," he said softly, but with an edge of strength to his words. She won't be pacified by submission. "It is Geoffrey, actually."

Her eyes flickered over his face one more time. She turned away from him to regard Potter.

"A werewolf, Harry? What do you want with one of his werewolves?"

Geoffrey arched a brow, impressed. In front of him but behind the woman, Potter was pursing his lips, obviously deciding between admitting to some feeble excuse, or telling her the much more reasonable truth.

"I didn't know he was a werewolf, Alex," he said haltingly, with a biting regard towards Geoffrey; as if Geoffrey had given her some clue he hadn't given him? Geoffrey wanted to laugh at the regard, because he had given Potter many clues and this woman none at all.

"Then why hide him? Why come here? Why _break the rules_ for _him?_"

She was close to him now. One or the other could have leaned forward and started a kiss, but Geoffrey thought that was farthest from their minds. Nevertheless, there was more concern than anger in the woman's eyes and her rapid heart rate told Geoffrey she suspected something was happening around her that was out of her control.

She was more logical than Potter. She wouldn't expect to get her little boy back.

"He found a photo of a boy in my robes and thought it most interesting," Geoffrey said casually, as if the question had originally been addressed to him and it was a mere mistake that she had been turned towards Potter as he answered. Potter's muscles twitched as if he were holding himself back from attacking Geoffrey, but Geoffrey let the idea slide past - he had to focus on the present.

She turned _very_ slowly towards him, her eyes narrowed, her lips drawn tight, her nostrils flared. She doubted him, clearly.

"A boy?" She asked, her voice almost sweet. Her face didn't match.

"Yes," he said simply. "It's in his pocket now," he added, motioning with his head toward Potter. She turned back around to face him, demanding he give it over. It took several demands, but finally he slid it into her hands.

Geoffrey thought the boys eyes must have been closed at the moment, because the woman's face went ashen. His theory was proven right when Harry leaned forward and whispered, "they open, just wait." And then she took a breath quite suddenly.

"How old is he here?" She said promptly, without looking up from the photograph or turning around. Geoffrey breathed in. The boy would forgive him for treating Potter however he had too, but the boy would never forgive him for upsetting his mother.

"I think he was six."

"You think? Wasn't it in your pocket?" Geoffrey tried to avoid that question.

"When he was six he decided that he should learn how to fly with his magic like the Dark Lord and took it upon himself to climb trees and then jump from them. It was the last time I recall such a distinct bruise."

"That is a handprint!"

"Yes, indeed. The Dark Lord thought it quite foolish that he had broken his wand arm falling from the tree."

"Did _Voldemort_ simply leave the broken arm as well?"

"No."

"It was healed, then?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She pursed her lips - Geoffrey could see the corner of them, even though she hadn't looked up yet.

"And now...is he still alive?"

"Yes."

"How would you know?"

"I am tied to him, magically. I feel if he is in danger."

"Why?"

"I am his Guard. The Dark Lord decided it was my fault he had broken his arm falling from the tree. Now I always know when the boy believes himself to be in danger, or when he is hurt, or upset."

"That is Dark Magic."

"It is only on me, not the boy."

"Why go through all the trouble?"

"Presumably to torture me," Geoffrey said, with an edge of humor to his voice that finally made the woman turn around.

"Voldemort likes his torture to be swift and painful - that is neither." It was a question disguised as a statement.

"He punished me swiftly and painfully as well, I assure you," he said, scowling a little as he said it to her - admitted it to her. Geoffrey still remembered the gleam that had been in Voldemort's eyes. _I assigned you to the boy specifically to keep him unharmed, Geoffrey. Now I find you have disregarded your assignment and in your neglect, my belonging has been harmed. He should not have been left - you should have _known_ he was doing something foolish and _stopped_ it. _

"And what are you to him?"

"He's Devlin's 'guard'," Harry answered and it seemed to Geoffrey he was trying to prove he _had_ learned something about the situation. Harry didn't pipe up to supply anymore information about his responsibilities and after a moment Geoffrey opened his mouth and repeated exactly what he had told Harry. After he was done, she frowned for a moment and then turned towards Harry.

"Let me see whatever memories you've extracted," she suddenly demanded, having spotted the basin atop the desk. Harry frowned.

"Alex, we didn't extract any memories from him. He told me his cost for betraying Voldemort was to know Devlin was mine and I wasn't playing some trick on him."

It looked like she wanted to know more, but she held her tongue, obviously eager to have some answers away from Geoffrey's prying ears. She turned back to the Death Eater, studying him.

"Was my husbands proof satisfactory?" She asked and Geoffrey wasn't sure if it was the tilt of her head, the slight purse to her lips, or the minuscule arch of her brow that made him certain she was setting a trap for him. He had no choice but to walk right into it, either.

"Yes." He kept his answer as short as possible - giving her as little reaction as he could and hoping as a consequence to extract more of one from her. To get another clue about this trap.

"Good. Now it is your turn to prove to me that your Devlin is my Devlin as well." Her fingers twitched and immediately her wand was in her hand, held at Geoffrey's head. "Don't think too carefully about what you want to show me, _Geoffrey. _I'll be able to see any alterations you make."

She had given him all the clue he needed and now he felt doubt fill him with dread. He had been counting on her to be level headed - to understand she wouldn't be getting that innocent little boy back. Now he wasn't very certain of his earlier idea. _Your Devlin is my Devlin as well. _But the boy Geoffrey knew _wasn't_ her boy in anything except blood. He wasn't like the boy in Potter's memories.

"But he's not," he found himself whispering, despite the wand at his throat that should have made him _very_ aware of his position in the room. "He's not like your Devlin at all."

For a moment a shadow of hesitation flittered across her blue eyes and then it was gone, replaced by an additional layer of determination. The wand dug into Geoffrey's neck.

"You're in no position to argue about theoretical things," she said firmly, but the whole-hearted hatred had disappeared from the edge of her voice and there was a bit of understanding there instead.

"He was a strange little boy," Geoffrey found himself retelling, his voice monotone. He felt strangely empty and it was no longer fear that made his limbs feel heavy and his mind sluggish, but pity, because she was about to see things she couldn't possibly be ready for, just as Geoffrey hadn't been ready to see the innocent child that had been the boy's beginning. "He told me his name was Devlin, but that he was looking for a new one - and when one of the other werewolves accidentally called him "_Dubhán"_ he clung to the name."

His eyes were locked with her own, but then he closed them as he pulled the memories to the surface of his mind. He motioned with his hand each time he was ready for her to pull one and transfer it to the Pensieve. In the end, he had chosen three.

They swirl innocently enough in the stone basin, but Geoffrey felt sick, just looking at the Pensieve. Potter, Black, and the boys mother peered over the rim of the basin, hesitating.

"I know I am in no position to demand promises, but I plead with you: please do not tell him that I have shown you these things. He would be so upset."

Alexandra was the only one who turned around to regard him. She frowned for a moment, but then she nodded firmly.

"We won't," she said to him, before she turned back around and delved into the bowl along with the other two.

Pensieves allow memories to be brought out of an individual and temporally rewritten into a format viewable to many, but Pensieves were also designed with Realistic-Recollection magic, which meant they mimicked the remembered environment to give a neutral point of view. Harry blinked into the dim lighting and waited for his eyes to adjust.

_Voldemort. Harry felt his muscles tense at the mere sight of him, but then he stilled, catching sight of the small boy, hiding himself behind the monster's legs. It was such an odd sight, that he found himself blinking a couple times. He heard Alexandra draw in a breath. Sirius seemed speechless. _

'_So tiny' the notion seemed to hang in the air, implanted by Geoffrey's mind. It was clearly Devlin and he looked so small and shy. Voldemort's hand snaked behind himself to clasp the boy's shoulder and drag him forward, away from whatever protection the child had thought he had found behind the monster's legs. _

"_Stand up straight," Harry heard him hiss, in English. It seemed it should have been a whisper, but Geoffrey's werewolf ears had probably found it easy enough to hear. "What have I said about fear?" _

_Devlin's green eyes swerved to the monster's red ones and his back straightened. _

"_Fear is for lesser beings than you and I," the child said, his voice crisp and confident. The fear snuck away from his eyes and he withdrew his hands from his pockets. Harry felt his heart break a bit at the words. _

_Voldemort straightened himself. _

"_This boy will be transforming with you. I expect him _unharmed_ in the morning. There will be no excuses as I have supplied every single one of you with Wolfsbane." Harry turned. He hadn't been paying attention to the surroundings - only to his son. He finds himself face to face with the memory of ten or so men, each of them looking a bit haggard and withdrawn. Werewolves. _

_There was a nod from each of them. _

"_Come, child," Voldemort said softly, with a firm edge that sent shiver up Harry's spine. The child followed him to the memory-Geoffrey. "This is Geoffrey. Remain with him." _

"_Yes, sir," he said. Voldemort nodded and then he swept from the room, his green robes swallowing him in their swell. _

_The memory Geoffrey peered at the boy for a long moment. _

"_Perhaps," he said slowly, "I should introduce you to everyone." _

"_That won't be necessary," Devlin said, his voice clipped and dismissive. _

"_Have you...transformed before?" Geoffrey said and something was clearly making him a bit uncomfortable about the boy. He shuffled his feet, while Devlin stayed perfectly still, extruding confidence. _

"_Yes," he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "He didn't say you had to comfort me," he added, scathing. "And I find it rather annoying that you think you have to know my life story just because we're all going to be screaming in pain in a moment." _

_Geoffrey nodded like he had to Voldemort. As if he had just been given an order. Devlin settled himself onto the ground, hugging his knees, looking at everyone. Somehow, even in a childish position, he seemed to extrude the opposite. _

_In charge. It was like he knew his place in this room, and it wasn't that of a child or a newcomer - it was at the top, in charge. They were all afraid of _him_. Harry swallowed. He had always known his son was more clever than brave and he had purposefully avoided exposing Devlin to these sorts of mind games. _

_The memory sped up until everyone began to transform. Harry watched Geoffrey watch Devlin, trying to keep his eyes on the boy through the whole process. Geoffrey was screaming in agony, but Devlin was quiet, his whole body tense with his fingers digging into the bare dirt floor. His green eyes were opened and they remained on Geoffrey. _

'_Alpha' the word hung in the air, ingrained there by Geoffrey and Harry felt himself frowning, disturbed. _

_He had never seen his son as wolf before - it was something Remus and he shared and Harry had always thought it safer to have the boy understand it was an absolute separation. With the potion there was the human mind to contend with and Harry was always a bit afraid that the child might have tried to leave his room to seek out his parents and that the potion might have malfunctioned. He had always felt safe with Remus there to watch the child. _

_His son was playful as a werewolf for a moment that all-consuming fear and sadness lost a bit of it's grip on him. He felt a shadow of a smile pull at his lips as Devlin raced around the room, pouncing on the adult werewolves, his tail high in the air, his tongue hanging out in a pant. He 'yipped' and Harry very nearly laughed at the sound. _

_He watched as Geoffrey finally managed to subdue the little wolf, tugging him back towards a corner of the tent by the nape of his neck. He curled around Devlin, keeping him still, until Devlin finally fell asleep, and so did Geoffrey. The memory faded slowly then gave way to another one. _

_This time they were in a crowded, well lit room. There was a table in the center and around it sat twenty or so Death Eaters. Harry knew a few of them, but many he did not. Geoffrey was seated at the far end of the table and he was fidgeting under the table - Harry rather thought that Geoffrey's status had risen greatly with Devlin's appearance. _

_Suddenly all the murmuring stopped abruptly, because the tent door has opened and in it's frame was a small boy. The room was perfectly hushed and Harry could see the fear enter his son's eyes. _

"_Geoffrey, get rid of the child," Voldemort said. _

"_Where shall I bring him, My Lord?" Geoffrey asked, after he had approached the boy. _

"_To my tent. The boy knows the password." Geoffrey nodded and then they were tugged out of the tent and into the cool night air along with Devlin. _

"_What were you thinking?" The werewolf asked, eying the small child. Devlin tugged away from his grasp and growled. _

"_Don't touch me!" He said loudly, his little hands as fists at his sides. "I didn't say you could!" _

"_I don't listen to you," Geoffrey said smoothly, grabbing the boy again, eying the closed tent door, and hurrying them away. Harry felt superficial relief overwhelm him. "You are not My Lord." _

_They had stopped in front of another tent. Devlin looked set to argue, but Geoffrey tugged on him again and said "password please," firmly. When they were inside, entering into a small sitting room, Devlin rounded on the man. _

"_You're stupid," he said defiantly. "You don't know a thing." _

"_Is that so?" Geoffrey said, sounding a bit bored. _

"_You don't even know what a 'Lord' is!"_

_Geoffrey frowned for a moment, inspecting the boy with curiosity. _

"_What?" He asked, confused and taken aback. The boy crossed his arms. Harry waited with baited breath and Alexandra had a knowing smirk tugging at her lips, as if she already knew what Devlin was about to say. He stood on his tip toes, his head tilted back so that he had a good a look at Geoffrey. _

"_He's not the Lord at all. You're just a stupid Wizard who can't look past his nose, so you don't know! But I know! My mama taught me!" _

_Geoffrey arched one of his eyebrows regarding the child with what looked like humor and sadness all mixed together. He bent down, that boredom gone from his features along with his annoyance. _

"_Devlin-"_

"_That isn't my name anymore. I'm Dubhán now." _

"_Dubhán, that isn't the kind of 'Lord' the Dark Lord is." _

"_I _know_!"_

"_No...he's not trying to pretend to be God, either." Geoffrey said slowly, as if trying to recall something. "That's a Muggle thing, not a Magical thing." _

"_My mama believes in God!" Devlin defended. _

"_Well, she's a mudblood, isn't she?" Geoffrey reasoned, the word leaving his mouth smoothly. Devlin scrunched up his face. "Her parent's are muggles," he explained, "so of course she believes in their God." _

_Silence. Devlin's glare was potent. Harry would know - it was not something Voldemort taught his boy how to do. _

"_Voldemort is saying he is powerful - like a ruler." _

_Devlin frowned. _

"_It wouldn't a good idea to let him know you felt he was pretending to be a muggle god," Geoffrey said after a moment, coming very close to the child. "He would be angry," he said slowly, as if imploring the child to understand. _

"_No, I don't think so," Devlin said after a while. "Lots of people do whatever God tells them to do and lots of people do what my grandfather tells them to do, too."_

_Harry felt himself swallow. Voldemort knew? Alexandra reached for him, intertwining their fingers. _

_The door had opened behind Geoffrey to admit Voldemort, who was sharing a regard with Devlin. _

"_Indeed, coming from a dimwitted child it is most like a compliment," Voldemort said scathingly. Devlin frowned, but held his tongue. "Indeed, he would find it unnecessary to be angry about such a comment, considering he had plenty reason to be angry at the child unlocking his door and going _where he does not belong!"_ There was a hiss of anger and venom at the end, Voldemort's facade falling away. _

_Devlin worried his lip, but only from the inside of his mouth. Harry knew this move - this expression that meant he was thinking of every reason that had made it right in his head. Harry waited with baited breath, worrying eating at his stomach, his mind echoing with one word...punishment. _

"_I made a mistake," he said after a moment, pulling himself up straight and looking at Voldemort, eye to eye. "I won't do it again." _

"_Geoffrey, you are dismissed," Voldemort bit out, not looking away from the child. The memory swirled around them as Geoffrey left the tent, righting itself as a new memory. _

_Devlin was older here and for a moment Harry felt his heart simply stop beating in his worry. They were in a tent again. Devlin was on his knee's, bleeding from his shoulder. There was man in front of him and off to the side, stood Geoffrey. _

_Devlin got to his feet. _

"_What are you doing?" He shouted at the unknown man, who was putting away his wand. "Take that out right_ now_. I didn't say we were done! I _can_ do this!" _

"_You are bleeding, Dubhán." _

"_I'll make you bleed too, if you don't let me try again. I am perfectly fine." _

_The man pulled out his wand again and aimed it at the boy, but not before sharing a look with Geoffrey in the corner. _

"_Diffindo," the unknown said, and Harry waited for the little boy to side step, to fall to security of the ground, to do_ anything_, but instead, at the last moment, he withdrew a wand and uttered the shield charm. _

_He summoned a shield and it held against the curse, but just barely. _

"_And you thought I didn't have it in me," he said, jeering, to the unknown man. He stepped forward, smiling. "Now you can put your wand away," he added, motioning to the man. _

"_Right you are. I guess you'll be off to tell The Dark Lord of your success?" The man asked, nonchalantly - as if this were a regular comment. Harry felt anger boil in his stomach at the casualness. Devlin was still bleeding!_

"_Why? What is so impressive about a silly little shield charm?" _

_For a moment the man looked set to argue, which he should have, Harry snarled, because it was absolutely amazing from a boy who couldn't be more than six! But then he paused and glance at Geoffrey, who shook his head ever so slightly. _

"_I suppose you're right. Especially since it took you a whole two days to master the charm." _

"_Oh shut it," Devlin said, with the air of a child who has said much worse. "You're a horrible teacher, that's the problem." _

_He might have been being rude, but Harry caught the smirk and so did the unknown man. _

The memory faded and suddenly Harry was standing next to Sirius' desk once more, Alex pale beside him, Sirius' eyes vacant and disturbed, and his own mind reeling.

"I warned you," the Death Eater said behind him. "Devlin was a little boy full of fear - he died the moment he was stood before Voldemort."

**I hope you like it. I wanted to get something out for you guys. I'll probably end up finding a ton of errors once I post it, because I kinda rushed. :) I had to flu, so I got a bit behind schedule. **

**What did you think? Better than the original? The one memory about 'Lord' was first written from Devlin's perspective and posted in the original story (Ch. 27 if anyone is desperate to read it). I hope I did alright with the memories. It's a bit hard, because now I know all the things I **_**can't**_** let you know yet, but I already know. lol **

**Anyways, please review!**


	3. Midnight Routines

His mind spun with what he had just witnessed, the harshness of reality bearing its weight upon him until Harry couldn't help it - he staggered over to a chair and sat down. His elbows pressed painfully into his thighs, his head resting in his hands. He felt like trembling, but held himself stiff, because he knew if he allowed any of his emotions to manifest themselves physically - even one harmless tremble - he would start crying.

Harry remembered the first time his boy had ever been afraid. When he had been little over a year, Sirius had transformed within his view - to this day Harry isn't sure why it had frightened him that time, because he'd seen it before. Alexandra had said something about _being more aware_, but _why_ hadn't been the point. Fear had entered his eyes, forcing them wider, making them sharper, and instead of _crying_ like he did whenever someone told him 'no' he had simply stood there, shaking.

The next time he had been afraid, he hadn't shaken at all - he'd just stood there and his little chest had puffed out and his eyes had narrowed. He had looked _angry_, except his eyes had been wide and sharp and Harry had _known_ it was fear. After he'd been bitten fear had always seemed to make him smarter rather than rasher and Harry had been so relieved, because his boy had seemed to have no fear of the reckless.

Devlin did not need to act afraid to be afraid. Devlin had been afraid in those memories. Afraid of Voldemort. Except his boy had always been clever. Harry felt that agony return to his chest as his mind grappled with the fact that his four year old had deceived Voldemort. How had Voldemort not seen his fear? _Or perhaps he had..._

Voldemort wouldn't have cared that Devlin feared him so long as he was getting what he wanted from Devlin. Which brought up the next chest-crushing concern - what _had he wanted_ from Devlin? Why had he kept the child alive? Why had he bothered to make sure Harry and Alexandra thought he was dead?

_Why?_ It plagued his mind incessantly, whispered in Devlin's little voice, full of curiosity and innocence. Once upon a time Harry had gritted his teeth at that word, from that voice, willing himself to remain calm despite the onslaught of 'why?' that he _knew_ was coming - now he would give anything to have Devlin following him around his house, whispering 'why?' over and over again. He'd never take it for granted again.

"What do you intend to do with the information I am sharing?" The Death Eater asked, his head turned slightly. Harry just realized that he'd been sitting next to the man for several minutes. Alexandra eyed him intently, Sirius looked a little less ghost-like. Harry felt reality's weight shift on his chest again.

"Rescue him, of course," he said, his voice raspy and full of disbelieving air. _Rescue him. Hold him. Kiss him. Tell him how much he is loved. _

"What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter - is bound to feel like kidnap to him," the Death Eater whispered, his voice all at once full of hatred as well as pity.

Harry knew. Somewhere in himself, he understood the Death Eater's words. Knew Devlin would be different in every way imaginable.

"_Why? What is so impressive about a silly little shield charm?"_

"_Lots of people do whatever God tells them to do and lots of people do what my Grandfather tells them to do, too." _

"_Don't touch me! I didn't say you could!" _

"_That isn't my name anymore. I'm Dubhán now."_

He clenched his jaw to imprison the sob that wanted so desperately to escape him. Even Devlin knew he wasn't Devlin anymore... and yet...

"Harry?"

Alexandra's voice was soft and soothing and Harry knew to her this was just like crying - showing weakness in front of this Death Eater. She would do anything for him and what had he done for her? Given her a name that practically begged for trouble to find it. Made her mother tell her a secret Harry often wondered if Alexandra would have better without knowing. Given her a child and allowed it to be taken away from her...

"Harry?"

He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"Mr. Potter - you'll have start thinking logically again soon. Right now...Devlin...is surely wondering where I have been."

Anger blossomed in his chest and Harry fed the fire, clinging to the ironically stabilizing emotion. Harry was always the most lost when he was feeling nothing at all.

"Why _were_ you in a raid - away from Devlin?"

The Death Eater sunk into the chair, away from Harry's gaze. Alexandra was frowning now too. Sirius still looked as if he might be sick.

"I was standing in for someone."

"But you weren't supposed to be there!"

"No. I am meant to be at camp and as I was saying Devlin-"

"What was more important than his safety - you say you are attached to him with magic-"

"My friend's baby died, Mr. Potter. Voldemort would not have been sympathetic. I stood in his place so that he would not be punished so soon after the tragedy."

Harry's retort and argument died in his throat, because he understood that pain. He was struck once more by the human behind the Death Eater mask and as always, he hated the feeling. They had no right to feel like he felt - to bleed like their victims. They had no right to be upset about their own children, when they were capable of slaughtering others. They had no right to _be afraid_ when they were willing - happily - to make others quake with the emotion. But even the worst choices, Harry had come to realize in his life, could not strip you of your humanity. Choices may define who you are, as Dumbledore had once told him, but _as long as you were afraid, you were human. _

Harry always tried very hard not to consider Voldemort when he was entertaining this notion.

"You have to get him out of there," he said harshly to the Death Eater instead. He tried to ignore the edge of desperation that leaked into his tone, or the way he was facing the man, without hatred etched onto his features. He was supposed to hate this man, but he couldn't help but feel a bit of that slip, because now he had to put his hope into this man - into this _Death Eater_.

"He isn't your Devlin anymore," the Death Eater said, imploringly. Willing Harry to understand, and Harry _did_ understand, but the Death Eater didn't understand what was far more important: _Harry didn't care. _It didn't matter that Devlin wouldn't rush into his arms -Harry would live with never being able to hold the boy again, if he could just look at him and know he was _safe_. It wouldn't matter if the boy hated him - it would _hurt_, but Harry would still love him and that's all that would matter. Nothing would matter except that he would have Devlin back and he would be _safe_.

_Not dead. Not cold. Not lifeless. Not beaten. Not starved. Not torn to bits by curses. Not laying in a casket. Not too-still. Not pale and blue and black. _

_Alive. Warm. Breathing. Looking. Learning. Growing. __**Feeling. **__Flushed, pink, and lively. _

"I can peel apart your mind," Harry said harshly, feeling that anger consuming him again. He wanted Devlin back. Needed him. "I can find where Voldemort has hidden him. I can break down the wards. I can send in hundreds of Aurors. I can put Devlin in the middle of a war zone - if that is the only way you will let me have him back."

The Death Eater sunk further, his body trembling. Harry should stop, but he didn't, because when he got like this - so _angry, furious, wanting, needing, demanding - _it was almost impossible to stop.

"It is the choices we make that define us and I will always choose the route the spills the least blood - but if you will not _give_ me that choice..." He withdrew his wand. Sirius flinched a bit, but Alexandra was stiff and unreactive. She wanted Devlin back.

"It is not so easy," the Death Eater began, eying Harry's wand with fear. "Voldemort watches where the boy goes. No one is trusted completely with the child."

"You are his Guard."

"I have taken him out of the camp three times in four years," he said raggedly. "All were arranged by Voldemort..."

"So do so again."

"I...where would I bring him? Voldemort can track the boy. He will kill me."

Harry didn't particularly care about the Death Eater's life, but if Voldemort killed this man it would because he would know _Harry knew_ and then it would be near impossible to get to Devlin.

"I will set up a safe house. You will go to there with Devlin."

The Death Eater shook, but nodded. Harry stood up, leaned over the back of the Death Eater's chair, and undid his cuffs. Harry still had his wand.

"Tell me everything I need to know," he said.

The Death Eater stared at him for a long moment his amber eyes narrowed, his brow crumbled, and his lips pressed into a tight line. Harry felt his heart pitter patter as doubt rooted itself into his anger, breaking it apart as if it were soft rock. Then the Death Eater opened his mouth and Harry couldn't help the heady sense that overcame him. He hadn't been entirely sure he _could_ have gotten the information from the man with force.

"The child can be disapperated," he said slowly, his tone deliberate. Harry took in a breath, "He could not, until recently. The Dark Lord, in planning for an attack on the camp, realized that Devlin would be a sitting duck if the Dark Lord were not there..."

"But he _isn't _moved, correct?"

The Death Eater turned his gaze to Sirius, intent and critical.

"That is," Sirius began, swallowing away a bit more of his green hue. "Even Devlin would know what you were doing."

Harry felt his insides tighten and twist the longer the Death Eater stayed silent. He was thinking of what to say - considering revealing something and it drove Harry almost mad not to know.

"He isn't an innocent boy," the Death Eater began and Harry wanted to pummel him, because he honestly didn't feel like he had to hear that _ever again!_ The man had already told him, more than once, what Devlin was not. "He won't try to escape. The Dark Lord knows he has control over the child."

Harry felt that anger boil in his gut again and even though he _knew_ his face hadn't betrayed him, the Death Eater flinched as if he had simply _felt_ Harry's anger. Alexandra was calm and cool with an air of disgust directed at the Death Eater - but Harry knew Alex and he knew she was trying not to break down. Sirius frowned.

"I brought him to Diagon Alley three months ago," the Death Eater finally whispers, his hands gripping his thighs. "The Dark Lord allowed him. It was a test, he told me privately."

Harry felt all the breath leave him. Devlin had been in Diagon Alley. Where Harry often took his lunch break. Where he went shopping with Emma. Where his friends and colleagues and- Devlin had been accessible, and Harry hadn't _found _him. It as illogical, but Harry wasn't thinking logically right now.

"And...would he allow Devlin again?"

"I do not know."

"Take a guess," Alexandra said harshly, stepping closer to the man. Her eyes were narrowed and her magic was swirling all around her.

"Devlin usually gets his way if he tries hard enough," the Death Eater finally murmured.

"It would be safest for you, if you were able to conceal the kidnapping with an already expected trip," Sirius said softly, oddly focused.

"Yes, I am completely aware of the advantage," the Death Eater said, exasperated. "But that is easier said than done."

"It is really besides the point as well," Harry said firmly, "the important fact is that you will move the boy - to a safe house - and then you will remain there, until I come."

"How will I get to this safe house?"

"I will implant it into your mind."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Geoffrey disapperated back to the camp. It was dark already, but the Death Eater's doing patrol saw him immediately. Their momentary surprise and cheer gave way quickly to suspicion. _Where were you? Gunning already told us you stood in for him, but no one else returned. What happened? Were you captured?_

Geoffrey feigned a head injury, which, the more he thought about it, was probably fairly truthful. He told them he had seen the Auror's, been hit by a spell, and then disapperated to safety where he had waited. They looked at him oddly, of course, but he was above their ranking, so they let him be. They would tell Voldemort tomorrow, he was certain - he had seen the gleam of uncertainty in their eyes.

"The boy was looking for you," another of them said, half dismissively. The boy wasn't their problem. Geoffrey nodded politely, said he was on his way to the Healer's and walked off.

He didn't go the Healer's, of course. He went to his tent, intending to sit upon his bed for a moment and simply _think. _The other werewolves looked up for a minute as he entered the shared living space, but it was dark, and they were tired. One of them, a young man perhaps twenty at the most, stopped Geoffrey and whispered: _'He's asleep on your bed'. _

And so he was, mop of dark hair twisted into his eyes, one hand snuck under Geoffrey's pillow, the other under his chin. He looked such a child, asleep.

He wondered, in the child's mind, if he blamed his father, the great Harry Potter, for not coming and getting him, or his mother, the one who tucked him in and kissed his forehead, for forgetting him. He wondered if he remembered either of his parents beyond vague sensations. He wondered what Potter would think of a child who had only stepped on a broom in a trial practice of escape from _his _men.

The Dark Lord would return in the morning. If he had been there, Geoffrey was almost certain the boy would have told Voldemort Geoffrey was missing. If Potter had known he was away, he would have stormed the camp that very night, Geoffrey was sure.

"Dubhán?"

His eyes fluttered. His hands flexed. His hair fell further onto his face.

"Dubhán?"

His eyes snapped open, wide and awake and observant. They found Geoffrey's face and a bit of that alertness slipped away at finding the familiar and the safe.

"Geoffrey."

"Let's get you back to bed, alright?"

The boy nodded and Geoffrey lifted him. His hair tickled the nape of Geoffrey's neck as the boy put his head down again. A little fist was curled around the front of his robes, the other slung over Geoffrey's shoulder.

"I couldn't find you," the boy whispered softly, half asleep.

"I know. I'll tell you tomorrow," Geoffrey said, nuzzling the boy. The cool air whipped at Geoffrey's face the moment they exited the tent. It felt good against his hot skin, cooling down his worry. It made it just a bit easier to think straight.

_Tomorrow it will be too late,_ his mind whispered in a moment of clarity. _Voldemort will know. You will be dead._

Devlin clung tighter. The Guard's watched him as he carried the boy through the camp. One misstep and they would kill him, Geoffrey knew. There was no escape - hadn't Potter been able to understand that? Voldemort protected what was his. Devlin was _Voldemort's_.

"I'm tired," the boy mumbled. Geoffrey wrapped his arms around the boy, holding him close. Voldemort would know and Geoffrey would be dead and the boy would be without anyone to protect him from Voldemort.

"I'm bringing you to your bed," he said, speaking through a haze. The child nodded against his shoulder. When he had reached the door the Guard at the door was watching him carefully. They already knew. All of them knew. All of them knew to be suspicious. _But you are above them_. Until Voldemort came back, they would leave him be. The boy was his protection - Devlin was to be feared. Upsetting Devlin was to be feared.

"Password please," Geoffrey whispered to the boy, who turned in his arms and whispered it to the guard. He gave a curt nod and allowed them entrance.

Geoffrey felt drained. Now that there were no eyes to preform in front of except Devlin's he felt as though he could simply will himself to stop existing. Wouldn't it be better? He knew Voldemort would ensure his death was anything but peaceful.

"Geoffrey?" He was still holding the boy, mere steps away from the door. The boys eyes looked at him, so perspective and uncanny in their intensity. "Is something bothering you?"

He wouldn't have asked it, except that they were alone. It was only when they were alone that Devlin dared to ask such caring questions.

_Alone_.

_Just the boy. _

_In his arms..._

"Close your eyes Dubhán, it is far to late for you to be awake. I will tell you in the morning." The child nodded and Geoffrey took a step, to keep the boy calm. He fiddled with his hand, withdrawing his wand with measured care. He whispered a sleeping spell and then - he disappeared.

There were no eyes to see him, not even the boys.

OoOoOoOo

"Goodnight Emma," Harry whispered softly when he came home late that night. She was already asleep, but that wasn't unusual - Harry often kept late work hours. Molly Weasley was down stairs, speaking with Alexandra. She had said Emma had gone to sleep just fine, but Harry had to check. He always had to check.

Sometimes when he saw her so safe and relaxed he couldn't help but think of that horrible night when the house had been perfectly hushed and Emma had fallen asleep looking just as peaceful. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image of her little face screaming and her hands clinging so desperately to Alex's neck as he made Alex take her away.

Harry placed a kiss on her forehead and then withdrew from the room. She was safe, just like every night since _that_ night. Without really thinking, Harry walked down the hallway and opened a different door.

Inside was a room painted in blues and greens. On the walls were flying brooms and cartoon creatures. Stuffed animals stare at Harry from the bed. He sat on the bed, feeling reality bearing down on him once more.

A stuffed wolf fell from atop it's precarious pile at Harry's disruptive weight. He picked it up. Remus had given it to Devlin on his fourth birthday. Mere months before _it_ happened. He held the animal close to him. It had long ago stopped smelling like Devlin - just like everything else - and Harry almost cried at the thought that soon this bed would be disheveled and these toys a mess. He didn't think he would ever have the heart to tell Devlin to clean up again, because the mess would always be a reminder that he was _there. _

_He's not four anymore_, Harry's mind whispered, without his permission. Would Devlin play with stuffed animals still? Was he too old for racing brooms on his walls? What about that teddy bear over there - he'd had it since he was tiny. Or those dragon toys, left where he had lined them up on his desk?

What would he like now?

The patter-patter of light-footed feet made him look up. Zee was sitting at the door, wagging his tail.

"Hi, boy," he said, his voice raspy and hoarse despite the fact that he has held the tears at bay. The dog tilted his head and whimpered softy. The dog wandered over and climbed quietly onto the bed next to Harry. He was five now and he had just started moving with a semi-regard for where he was in space.

Alexandra had jokingly told him just this morning that she thought he had finally stopped being a toddler and perhaps now he _would know where his feet were_. Just this morning Harry had patted the dogs head and said, 'you know perfectly where every bit of you is, Zee - right where you want it: in everyones business.' The dog had licked him and then gone back to following Alexandra around the kitchen as she made eggs, hopeful she would be dropping some.

"He's going to come home soon," Harry whispered to the dog, patting its head. "But you can't be upset if he doesn't remember you at first or pretends not to like you, okay boy?" The dog's head tilted again. After a while Harry got up to go to bed, but no matter how much he called Zee, the dog wouldn't move.

"I know, you miss him too. You can sleep here." And Harry did something he had not done in years – he left Devlin's door open, because for once in four years, it didn't seem like such a shrine anymore. Its owner would be coming back.

_OoOoOoOoOoOoO_

Geoffrey's nerves were flayed and raw and _burning_ and the size of the 'safe house' simply exacerbated the situation by making him feel as if he had walked into a trap, been locked away in a prison cell, been buried alive, been-

_The boy stirred_, laid out on the only bed in the _room_ (but no, it wasn't a room, because it had a kitchen and a bathroom...). There wasn't enough space to pace and Geoffrey had already turned over every _thing_ in the whole place trying to find some magical button to inform Potter that they were _here_ and _waiting_ and by Merlin _Geoffrey wanted Potter to explain this to the boy!_

It had only been an hour. Perhaps Potter already knew. Perhaps he was rounding up his men, so that he could take Devlin and then kill Geoffrey. _It will be quick,_ Geoffrey thought with some calmness. He was certain it would be better than the death awaiting him from Voldemort.

The boy stirred.

Geoffrey's wand twitched and the boy fell still again.

Truth be told, Geoffrey was more than a little afraid of the child when he wielded his wand. He had tried to take the wand from the boy, but Geoffrey had the burn on his hand still to prove _that _ wasn't going to happen, even while he was asleep.

He settled into the only chair and watched the boy - ready to spell him asleep the next time he stirred. He had given up on notifying Potter - if Potter didn't come for them it would be his fault that they were both dead.

OoOoOoO

_Death Eater's, _his watch read as it continued to scream at him. Harry got dressed in the haze that was often his midnights. He swung his cloak over himself and finally managed to remember the spell to _shut the stupid thing up_. Alexandra was sitting up in bed, watching him.

"Be safe, Harry," she said softly as he leaned over to kiss her - still in that disjoined haze in which all he could do was follow the routine. He nodded, kissed her again, and swept out of the room.

By the time he arrived on the scene (a small muggle village in the middle of nowhere), his men had subdued the Death Eater's already. They gave him weary looks as he approached the lined-up men and removed their masks - possibly afraid he would run off with one of the captives again.

"We can do this," one of his men said, Jake, if he recalled - he didn't often work with this crew.

"Are you worried about something?" Harry said with all the bemusement that a boss should when their underling is being foolish.

"Uh, no sir. It's just - it wasn't something they needed to bother you with, sir. Honestly they've all been a bit...easy tonight."

"What do you mean?

"They fought, sir...just once we had them, they haven't be their usual selves. Almost like they'd _rather_ be captured," the man said, eying the line of them.

"Interesting," he said, but he wasn't really. He pushed past the man and counted up the wands, making sure they had every one of them. As he passed a Death Eater he noticed his eyes flash amber. He was a young man, perhaps already in his twenties, possibly not quite. Harry paused for a moment and flashed the Death Eater a smile.

"It must be so impossibly annoying, not being able to mangle me to pieces," he said, trying to keep his voice charming. His team turned and frowned, clearly intrigued. The Death Eater actually laughed.

"You 'ave no idea," he said, grinning toothishly, his eyes glinting. Harry moved forward and then he motioned to his men and they began to round them up and disapperate with them.

Hours later, with all the paper work filled out, Harry made his way home _again. _Alexandra was sipping tea in the kitchen and he went to join her - except he poured something stronger. The bite of the rum hit the spot and he fell into a chair beside his wife, wishing things were different in his world.

"Everything as normal?" She asked, between sips. Harry nodded numbly, beyond tired. "Think you can sleep?"

Which meant she was well beyond tired, too.

"No, but I'd be more than happy to just hold you while one of us gets to sleep." She nodded - far too used to his routines to fight him. Acceptance - sometimes it pinned Harry's heart as if he were still a small boy, desperate for someone to just accept him, no matter that he never did anything right.

"Sounds lovely," she said and they climbed the stairs together.

He held her until she was a breath away from sleep.

"I miss him so much, Harry," she said softly. It wasn't an unusual comment and normally it would have sent Harry as far from sleep as the moon was from earth, but today it just made him hold her closer.

"He'll be home soon," he said softly into her ear, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and kissing her cheek. She nodded against the pillow and fell into slumber.

Harry lay awake on his back for a long moment. He went to rub at his eyes when he noticed that he still had his watch on. It was still silenced from when he had made it shut up.

_Devlin_, it said in small letters and Harry's heart slammed into his ribs as he scrambled on the bed. Alexandra was awake in a heartbeat.

"Again?" She asked, fear leaking into her voice. "Harry?"

"Devlin," he said instead, forcing the words past his tightening lungs. "My watch - I silenced it and I didn't hear the alarm. Devlin..."

"Oh Merlin," she said, fretting. She was getting dressed too.

"Alex, call Molly and see if she can floo over. When you have someone for Emma, come to the safe house, alright?"

She nodded, slowing down. Harry knew she had almost forgotten in her haste.

"I'll call Sirius," she said and Harry nodded. Sirius would come over in whatever state she had woken him. Once in his haste - when there had been an attack on Ron's house - he had come over in just his boxers. When Alexandra had later teased him he had smiled charmingly - now dressed in a set of Harry's clothes - and said 'yes well...I was sort of busy...you're lucky I took the time to put _this_ on.'

Harry disappeared, dressed in his undershirt and jeans.

Harry knew this safe house well - had hidden here more than once, as an injury healed. It all looked as it should, except that Harry had the distinct feeling that everything had shifted a bit - as if someone had put their hands on _everything_. He landed facing the tiny wooden kitchen - it was empty. The tiny wooden table with only one seat was empty. He turned and found the Death Eater seated in the only comfy chair, nursing a burned hand. An injury. Had there been a fight? Was Devlin -_ where was Devlin? _

"Nice to finally see you," the Death Eater said scathingly.

"There was an attack," he said, "I didn't hear the alarm go off."

_Where? Where? Where?_

"Yes well-" he waved his hand, obviously to exhausted to argue. "He's on the bed. I've kept him asleep...he has a wand."

The last part didn't really register. A wand? His brain dismissed the thought as less-than-important. He swung around to find the boy.

His body trembled.

It was like the picture all over again and Harry stood frozen for a long moment, waiting for those eyes to open. The boy was flat on his back, as if someone had just placed him there and for all Harry could tell he might have been- _**no!**__ pink and flush and __**breathing**_**. **Yes, that was right, his cheeks were the color flesh was _supposed_ to be (not cold, grey, and blue) and his chest was rising and falling slowly and steadily.

Harry took a step forward.

"Why isn't he waking?" He asked and if he had more of his wits about him he would cringe at his desperate whine.

"I spelled him asleep," the Death Eater said softly behind him and Harry was jolted, because hadn't he already told him that? Harry couldn't think. Euphoria and fear were creating an almost impenetrable fog inside of his head. It was a strange feeling, because just moments ago he could _remember_ being in control of his mind.

"Why?" He asked, licking his lips. He knew he meant something more specific, but the thought escaped him.

"I brought him here - I signed my death certificate. I figured the least you could do was explain it to the boy."

In any other state of mind Harry would have been furious, but nothing could touch him, in that moment. Snape could have been insulting his father. Voldemort could have been whispering about how how pitiful Harry was. Malfoy could have been taunting him about Alexandra. None of it would have bothered him and if he was aware of that, he _knew_ nothing the Death Eater said could upset him.

He even nodded, approaching the boy.

"He has a wand," the Death Eater said again, his voice on edge. Harry frowned, but the true importance of those words with that tone bypassed him in the fog.

"Devlin?"

The boys brow twitched at his word, his voice no longer such a whisper.

"Devlin?"

The boy turned in his sleep, away from Harry. But he had moved - unmistakably so. _Alive!_

"Dev-"

"Dubhán," the Death Eater said behind him, regarding Harry with pity when he turned to glance at the strange name. It made the boy stir. "Dubhán, wake up," and Harry turned around in time to see the boys eyes shoot open.

Open. Moving. Blinking. Green like a forest, with shimmers of amber. Harry was breathless. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, in that moment. The boy sat upright with a speed Harry cannot remember possessing when he was woken as a child. And then...those eyes found Harry.

He froze. His face turned pale. _Grey_.

Harry felt breathless and took a step towards the boy - to make it _right_.

"Don't touch me," he said, his face flushing again as he rushed to his feet, as tall as Harry upon the bed. There were emotions in is eyes, in his voice, in the very way he _moved_ and Harry could care less that they weren't good things.

"It's okay," Harry said, holding his hands out in front of him, trying to calm the child.

His shoulders straightened and he balanced himself upon the bed. His green eyes were narrowed. His little hands fists at his sides. His jaw was trembling minutely as he pressed his lips together. His hands uncurled and one of them reached towards his pocket-

"Dubhán, don't," said the Death Eater from behind Harry. "Don't do it," for all his exhaustion, the Death Eater managed to sound caring and warning all at the same time.

Harry had lost the green gaze - now it was locked with the Death Eater's own amber eyes. Harry turned, so he could see them both.

"What happened?" There was an ugly angry hiss to the child's words. Harry frowned at the command he had given the Death Eater.

The Death Eater didn't respond. His amber eyes disengaged themselves from the boys green ones and turned to Harry. Harry knew exactly what the Death Eater was trying to tell him: I signed my death certificate - you explain to the boy _what happened._

"Devlin," Harry said again, wanting to rush at the boy and wrap his hands around him, but he stopped himself, because he could see in _his boys_ eyes that it wouldn't be welcome. _It didn't matter that Devlin wouldn't rush into his arms -Harry would live with never being able to hold the boy again, if he could just look at him and know he was safe. _"I made Geoffrey bring you here."

"No you didn't," he said, his voice harsh and cold. His little hands were curled up in fists at his side. His eyes were narrowed, but wide. His lips were a thin pale line. He looked mad, but Harry knew Devlin - knew he was _afraid. _

_**UPCOMING: **_Then he saw him, a strange man that sparked something in his chest and made him feel _lost_ for a moment in a fog of _not knowing, and knowing, and not wanting to remember_. Green eyes, so sharp and brilliant that he thought he was staring into the killing curse for a moment, regarded him intently. He scrambled to his feet.

**Hope you like it! It's my present to everyone. What would I like, you ask? A review, please! :D**

**1,700 words written of the next chapter. **


	4. Into the Fog

"_Devlin_."

No, don't wake up.

That name always meant wakefulness was to be fought, because it always signaled such a nice dream. He waited in the silence of his sleep for the lullaby, or the wind rushing through his hair, or the uncontrollable laughter that made his belly ache.

"Dubhán, Dubhán, wake up." That name meant _wake up now_, because it was _real_ and _here_ and _now -_ he felt his eyes snap open, flooding his brain with light and sounds and smells.

There should have been stars above his bed - the magical ones he and Grandfather had made together in a rare moment of relaxation - but instead it was simply plain. His heart was hammering in his chest as he propelled his body upright. He turned his head because the first thing to be done was to _be aware_ and he couldn't do that without knowing exactly where he was.

Then he saw him, a strange man that sparked something in his chest and made him feel _lost_ for a moment in a fog of _not knowing, and knowing, and not wanting to remember_. Green eyes, so sharp and brilliant that he thought he was staring into the killing curse for a moment, regarded him intently. He scrambled to his feet.

"Don't touch me," he said, low and sharp and demanding. The strange man flinched, as if his words had actually _stopped_ him from doing so.

"It's okay," the strange man said, but he ignored the calming tone. _Manipulation. _He wouldn't have it - manipulation was for the weak minded. He felt a bit of coolness seeping back into his flushed skin and he could _think_ again. He moved his hand towards his pocket, for his wand.

"Dubhán, don't." His eyes snapped to the voice and found Geoffrey on the other end. He looked exhausted and ragged and _afraid._ Scenarios swam in his mind - captured, the camp attacked, Voldemort killed...a dream. He clung to the last in his mind.

"What happened?" He said, regardless, because he couldn't deny the tiny bit of doubt that remained that this was real, that this was _happening, _no matter how hard to tried to dispel it from his tightening chest. But Geoffrey turned away to regard the green-eyed man, as if the stranger knew more than him.

"Devlin," the green-eyed man began. He his blood ran cold, sluggishly, through his body. He felt like a puppet someone else was controlling as his body _jumped _at the name. _No_! He didn't allow his emotions to control him like this. He grabbed all those marionette strings back from whatever small part of his brain had held them in his shock. Control - it was more important than anything else.

"I made Geoffrey bring you here," the man said and his eyes snapped back to him, drawn away from his inner thoughts about the name. The man was lying, he was sure. His gaze flickered to Geoffrey for another moment, but Geoffrey'seyes were there, his magic was there, and last night when he had gathered him in his arms, it had definitely _felt_ like Geoffrey. This man wasn't controlling Geoffrey. He hadn't _made_ Geoffrey do anything.

"No you didn't," he said, his voice emerging past his tongue as sharp and bitter and biting. "There is only one man who _makes_ Geoffrey do anything," he let his eyes rake over the strange man, "and you _certainly_ aren't him."

The strange green-eyed man went still as if he himself were a puppet that no one was bothering to animate. He kept his eyes on the man regardless, a bloom of fear in his chest.

_Fear is for lesser beings than you and I. _

"I suppose you're right," the man finally said and his voice was too-soft, too-gentle, and too-caring, for his liking. He was familiar with anger, disappointment, pride, triumph, and manipulation - but not this honest _kindness_ and it made his gut twist and squirm at the uncertainty. How did he reply to that? "I didn't make him do anything, but I did demand it of him."

Demand...

He was familiar with those. They always began with a threat. His eyes flickered over to Geoffrey.

"Release me now," he said sharply. The man frowned and his lips quivered on the up-turn as if he were about to _cry_. He snarled, disgusted.

"I won't do that," the man said instead of crying.

He glared.

"I can hurt you," he said softly and deadly.

"Don't, Dubhán," Geoffrey said, his voice dead and grey.

"I'd like to talk," the strange man said, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. He twitched his fingers and his wand was in his wands, real and warm and ready. He sent a stunner towards the man without whispering a word, but the strange man blocked it - as any respectable wizard should have!

"I don't," he bit out, eyes hard upon the man, who seemed stunned despite his missed spell.

"Please, Devlin," the man said and his thoughts about the name came rushing back. Why was this man calling him that? That was a name from his dreams! _Because you are dreaming._

"I'm not Devlin," he said, to distract his uncertainty and fear. He would not feel the fear!

"Yes, you are. Please, just listen-"

He sent another curse, this time of the burning variety, towards the man, but once more, he simply blocked the spell. He waited for the anger to shimmer into those green eyes, but now there was merely more concern twinkling there - driving him mad.

"Let me go!"

"He doesn't remember you," Geoffrey whispered and Devlin felt the fear wash over him again, his brain working in a whirlwind around him to figure out what Geoffrey had meant. He licked his lips, his brain screaming at him to make everything _stop_ so he could _think_.

"Harry." There was a lady there now, looking around. _Harry, Harry, Harry. _

"_I hate Harry Potter." _

"_I'll hate him too, Grandfather." _

_Laughter, a hand in his hair, a rare smile. _

"_Good boy. You are special - better - than __**him**__."_

"_Because I am like you." _

He felt his body moving - backwards - until he was wedged into the corner. She turned around at his shuffling noise and her blue eyes pierced through him, sharp and intent and _seeing_. He felt as if someone had reached into him and taken all his air.

"Hello," she said, her lips tipping upward at their corners, her eyes crinkling, her eyebrows lifting just a little. She swallowed. "Have they explained things, yet?"

Her voice swept through the air and onto him and made him feel _warm_. Suddenly he could breathe again. He let his body relax just a little against the corner.

"No," he answered, eying the strange man again.

"How rude," she said, her eyes flickering to the strange man for the briefest of moments and then back to him. "May I?"

"I'd rather you let me go," he said, not because he wasn't supposed to be rude to women (he'd never been taught such a distinction), but because she seemed half-way clever and he didn't think he had to be rude for her to understand him.

"I'm sure," she said openly, moving closer to him. "But that can't happen right now - so perhaps we could speak."

"I don't think so," he said again, more firmly.

"Perhaps _I _could talk and you could listen?"

"If you please," he said to her, shrugging, "but I won't be listening."

"Alright."

He hadn't expected her to agree and it was with a sense of perplexity that he watched her conjure a chair and sit mere feet away from him. Her wand was on her lap - just as visible as his own. She didn't think he was some foolish child - like the strange man had! It made her just a bit more bearable.

"There was once a boy," she said softly, watching him, but without the unnerving intensity of the man. "and if you asked him what his favorite thing was, he would say 'magic'. Even as a small boy, he was talented at magic, you see. He could make things happen that he wanted - bring things to him, make lights dance and books come to life. He could tie his shoes before all his friends, because the laces just did themselves. He was a clever boy."

He frowned at the silly story, listening despite his earlier declaration. He couldn't help himself - it seemed to have _nothing_ to do about _this_.

"One day, a man came to his house. He snuck in, you see. He wanted to fight the little boys father, but he found the boy first. The boys father came to rescue him, but the man had kept the boy out of his father's reach." Her voice was even and deliberate, but her fingers fiddled with a button on her coat. "He decided that taking the boy would hurt the boys father more than anything else. So he took the boy and he told the father later that the boy was gone-"

"You mean dead," he said, despite himself. He hated when people called it anything but what it was. She nodded.

"Yes, dead. They had murdered him, he told the father. They had made him scream first, he said, while he looked at the father, laughing." He listened, partly because she had done him a compliment by using the _real_ words for these things - things he was more than familiar with.

"Then one day, the father met a man with a picture in his pocket of the boy -_ alive_."

Dread filled his stomach like a freezing charm pointed down his throat. His lungs were on fire.

"He told the father and the mother that the boy had never died."

His heart began to pound, making his cheeks flush and his brain thrum. Once more he felt _lost_ for a moment in that fog of _not knowing, and knowing, and not wanting to remember_.

"What have you done, Geoffrey," he said, without really realizing he had said the words - that he was capable of forming words through the fog. Geoffrey's face was covered by his hands, but he drew them apart like a curtain, at his words.

"Everything that I could for you," he said, his voice like _nothing_ in the air. As if someone had reached into his lungs and pulled out all the emotions there, ready to be used in his words. As if _he_ were empty. As if nothing mattered to him anymore. Geoffrey's eyes were empty too and he had never seen eyes like that before on someone who was alive.

'_Nothingness is but a moment away...beg.'_

"Please listen to us, Devlin," the strange man said. He was begging - _him_. He felt a rush of disgust and pleasure all at once. This man wanted _his_ approval. This was the way _their_ voices sounded, when they knew they were about to be punished. But what could he do to this strange man?

"My name is _**Dubhán**_!" He shouted, not loudly, but as sharp and potent as his grandfather when he was furious with someone. Like _everything_ in the whole world - even a grain of _dirt_ - was more valuable than whatever he was yelling at. He should know - grandfather had once told he he would rather be staring at a slow crawling beetle than his 'foolish little face'. He'd been crying, then.

The man seemed taken aback at his tone and he smirked, pleasure rushing through him at the look in the man's eyes.

"I'll call you whatever you like," he said finally, his voice just a bit more subdued. "Do you know _my_ name?"

"Of course."

"Mind proving it to me?" The humor in the man's tone was lost to him - he didn't like being challenged. _Always be aware, _his grandfather told could never win against them (perhaps if he _knew_ Geoffrey would fight with him, or stay out of the fight entirely, be would have a chance, but he couldn't be sure).

"Harry Potter," he said, with a false politeness covering up the sharp edge.

"Do you remember me?"

_Remember him? _ The words made him feel lost again, knowing, but not knowing, but feeling like he might not _want_ to know. There were lots of things he didn't really _want_ to know - like whether the Killing Curse was painful, or how many little boys or girls they had killed in the last raid, or what the Death Eater's did to the women and children they captured, or if his grandfather would keep him safe even if he stopped being so clever and entertaining...or if grandfather had really kept the one promise he had ever made with him.

He looked at the man again, frowning - feeling like he _knew_ this answer.

"_What a clever boy. Would you like to know a secret, child?" _

"_Yes, sir." _

"_I once had a worthless father as well - but like you, I was better than him." _

He felt something explode inside of him and suddenly his head hurt, his chest ached, his legs felt useless, and disgust, fear, and uncertainty roiled in his gut. It was one of those things that he didn't really like knowing, even though he already knew.

"Yes, I remember."

He had once desired this man to rescue him, but now he knew that desires were worthless. To desire something is to be crestfallen when it never comes about. It was only after he had thrown all those desires away that he had been able to really think about survival.

He found, now, that he didn't have the taste for them anymore. It didn't appeal to him now that this man had rescued him, or that the women was standing there who could sing him more lullabies. He didn't need them anymore and they only served to remind him of his weaknesses and failures.

There was relief spreading across the man's face - disgusting relief that had no real standing to be there. The lady's face, at least, was less open.

His head was pounding and he clenched his jaw against the pain.

"Dubhán?" His eyes rove over to the lady, curious at her use of his _real_ name. "We can't stay here much longer."

"Good. Leave me alone." The world swam before his eyes, but he kept his body rooted to the floor. "The Dark Lord will come get me."

"You'd be coming with us," she said once more, gently. "I'm afraid it is non-negotiable"

He unclenched his jaw to protest, but a wave of pain over came him, threatening to pitch him off his feet.

"I won't go anywhere with you," he said through the haze of discomfort. Geoffrey was peering at him, frowning ever so slightly.

"You don't look so good," the lady said, rising from her chair to come closer.

"Don't get near me, I'll hurt you!"

She turned to the man, took her wand and scribbled something in the air between them - something he couldn't see. After the man nodded, he disappeared.

He tried to fight through the growing pain. Now was his opportunity. Now there were only two. He inched his hand into his pocket and withdrew his wand. His palms were sweaty and his vision swam but he tried to take aim regardless.

"Expelliarmus," the lady whispered and the force of her spell bombarded him, leaving him breathless and wandless.

He would have said something scathing, but the man had come back, and there was a new, brown haired man with him.

"Hello, Remus," the lady said, without her eyes leaving him.

He watched as the new man 'Remus' turned around. It was Geoffrey's eyes that caught him on his way to the lady. Geoffrey surged to his feet and Dubhán narrowed his eyes, watching Geoffrey.

"You!" Geoffrey shouted as his body slammed against Remus, pushing him into the wall. "You!" His forearm was against the new man's throat now, his eyes an intense dark amber that had Dubhán breathing quickly.

"Don't even think of getting near him," Geoffrey growled and it appeared to him that Geoffrey didn't even care that the new man hadn't bothered to fight back. Potter and the lady look panicked and then - they withdraw their wands. Potter threw a stunner, but it did nothing, because Geoffrey is so angry that his wolf's magic is protecting him.

"We don't know each other, you've mistaken me for some-" Geoffrey pressed his forearm harder against the man's throat, stopping his words. Dubhán did not flinch at the yelp of pain that made it through the new man's throat - he had seen worse cruelty before.

"To hell we don't!" His voice was as scathing as a scratch from his claws would have been. "I shouldn't have brought him here! Not if they'll allow _you_ near him!"

The Remus man went pale, straining his neck to look over Geoffrey's shoulder. They're eyes met, amber-brown to green-speckled-gold. He felt something rush over him at the new man's regard.

"I'll _kill you _with my bare hands!" Geoffrey growled, low and hard and _real_.

"Tell hell you will!" Potter shouted throwing another stunner.

"Try something stronger, Harry," the lady said and he watched as Potter brought his wand up once more. He has the unmistakable urge to protect Geoffrey from Potter's wrath...

_He's a traitor_.

He felt small and powerless suddenly.

Part of him knew that Geoffrey would die soon - at the hands of Voldemort. Part of him wished the man would die less painfully. Another part wanted to kill him, himself.

But welling up from it's beaten part, a tiny bit of him cannon relinquish the friendship, protection, and care which Geoffrey had given him. That tiny bit of him wanted Geoffrey to live and it overwhelmed him.

_He's a friend. _

"Don't hurt him!" He said, rushing from his spot in the corner and wishing he had his wand. His hands curled around Potter's wand arm, dragging it sideways so that the spell comes forth and hits the little wooden kitchen table inside of Geoffrey. He clung to the man, breathless, his world spinning on its axis as the pain overwhelmed every sense his body had.

"_Stop it_," he said, desperation in his voice. Potter was looking at him, shock and concern etched across his face. He turned away, gritting his teeth against the nausea. "Stop it. Don't hurt Geoffrey, please. He...won't hurt the man..." He felt weak, unshielded, brought back into the body of a child. His vision was blurring and shaking and becoming muted. The tone of his words stopped Geoffrey and now he was regarding him as well, but with a more knowing glint to his eyes. He let go of the Remus man, who fell against the wall.

"Dubhán?" But he couldn't speak anymore, not even to confirm the fear in Geoffrey's eyes. He felt his muscles tense, relax for a fraction of a second, and tense again. He stumbled backward, into Potter's arms. He kept his regard on Geoffrey, willing the man to keep him safe while he could not.

"Please..." he managed to whisper, steeling himself for what he knew was coming, before he collapsed onto the floor, convulsing.

OoOoOoO

The moment the boy collapsed, Potter's eyes snapped to Geoffrey's, accusation making them narrow and gleam.

"What is wrong with him?" He said, trying to hold onto the boy, even as his body convulsed in his grasp. His spine arched and his mouth opened, as if to scream - but no sound came forth. Geoffrey came forward, unable to help himself. He went to reach for the boy, but Potter snatched him away, holding him closer.

"Don't get near him. For all I know you poisoned him!" The woman was worrying, turning her wand in her hands as if in the next moment she would remember a spell to fix her son's pain. The werewolf was behind Geoffrey still - against the wall catching his breath. He was unimportant at the moment.

"I didn't hurt him," Geoffrey defended, somehow horrified by the very idea. He'd never hurt the boy - hadn't him _bringing _him here proved that? "He...I don't understand it entirely but this used to happen when he was tiny. It's...something wrong...I don't know-" he ran a hand through his hair, finding panic between him and the words he so desperately needed to explain the situation to Potter. "The Dark Lord wouldn't tell me what causes them! He took something for it. It hasn't happened in _years_. I thought...perhaps he had outgrown whatever it was..."

"It looks a bit like a seizure," the werewolf said behind him and Geoffrey turned around to snarl at him and put him back in his place, _away from _the boy.

"He needs a healer," the woman said, sounding desperate. "I don't even know if we can travel with him this way, Harry."

Harry clung to the boy, almost in tears. He had just rescued Devlin and he felt like the child were dying before his very eyes. He hadn't gotten to kiss him or hold him or tell him how much he was loved! Dying!

Alexandra sent Remus for a healer and when he returned, with the finest healer the Ministry had to offer - which was saying something, since Harry had made sure he really _was _the best when he'd encouraged the Minister to hire him, Harry still didn't feel right relinquishing control.

Healer Blake peeled Devlin away from him gently and laid the boy out on the floor. He didn't wave his wand. He didn't pour potions down Devlin's throat. He simply looked up at Harry and asked: "He's been tortured?"

Harry didn't know. He hated that he didn't know. He felt guilt and doubt and fear overwhelm him. Tears clung to his eyes, traitorous. He swallowed hard, his brow knitting together and threw his arms into the air, the ultimate show of unknowing.

"Yes," the Death Eater said, very softly, from the chair that Harry had banished him too. "But a very long time ago."

"With what?"

"Crucio."

"That is all I need - it is what I suspected. This is what happens," he began slowly, making sure Harry was looking at him before he continued, "before Crucio victims lose their minds. It is extremely rare, actually, since most minds by this point aren't strong enough to not...fall over the edge."

Harry fell forward and brought the boy into his arms again. The tears were falling and he couldn't spare the thought to hate that they were. Alexandra was more composed beside him - she always was in times like these.

"What can be done?" She asked, her lips tight, her breathing deep.

"Nothing - there is no cure. Such episodes are usually brought on by stress and so the only thing is to avoid stress. Beside that, I can give him pain relieving potions. When was his last episode?"

"Two years ago," the Death Eater supplied, without waiting this time. "He can't take pain relievers, either. He's built an immunity."

Alexandra talked with the Healer for a while longer, and he agreed that the boy _could _be moved by Portkey. It was agreed that Alexandra would bring Devlin home and Harry would move the Death Eater somewhere safer. The Healer left with Remus.

Harry passed Devlin to Alexandra - he still hadn't fallen still - and began to hand her the first Portkey.

"He took medicine for it," the Death Eater said suddenly into the silence. "I didn't know if you had told the Healer...about him and the Dark Lord. He has medicine though. It is not a cure, from my understanding, but it _has _been two years since the last incident. The Dark Lord invented the potion for it."

"Wonderful - so there is something to help him that we'll never bloody get our hands on!"

The Death Eater stood up and made his way towards them. He went to the boy. Harry almost dragged him backwards as his hand touched Devlin, but Alexandra gave him a stilling _look_. His hand went into Devlin's pocket.

He withdrew a tiny shrunken bag. He handed it to Harry.

"There should be six vials in there. He was never allowed to leave his room without the pack. One vial every day."

"Thats...what do we do after that?"

"Convince the boy to write down the brewing instructions for you - I can't help you with that part. I imagine he'll be furious with me for a while. Shall I show you how to open the pack?"

Harry nodded and the Death Eater opened the front pocket first, which apparently didn't need a password. There was only one vial in there '_an emergency dose anyone would be able to give him'_ the Death Eater said as he handed it to Alexandra and she poured it down his throat. He stopped convulsing moments afterwards and Harry felt a rush of relief flood his body.

"Go with him now...if you want compliance. He'll wake up shortly, if I recall. I'll show Mr. Potter how to access the other vials."

So Alexandra left and Geoffrey opened the other pockets up, admitting it opened at a magical 'signature' that had to have been given pre-approved access.

"I'll leave it open," he said, zipping the pockets up again and handing it to Harry.

"Thank you," Harry said and the words were genuine. Much later, Harry would realize it was the first time he actually felt gratitude towards a Death Eater.

"May I beg a favor of you, Mr. Potter?"

"You can ask," he said, always weary of favors.

"That man - don't let him near Devlin again. He bit the boy - I could tell."

Harry stared at the Death Eater, realization dawning. It was like the mask coming off all over again to reveal the human. The Death Eater had reacted to Remus the way Harry had reacted to the Death Eater when he thought he had murdered Devlin. For the first time in his life, seeing the human behind the mask didn't bloom rage in his chest.

"I can't promise that, because it's now how it seems. Remus saved Devlin and the only reason Devlin is a werewolf is because werewolves do not have hands. I'll tell you the whole story another time. I want to be there when Devlin wakes up."

The Death Eater looked oddly at him for a long moment.

"Tell me later?" He said, more to himself than to Harry. "You mean for me to live?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Had he meant to kill the man? He can't recall - but Devlin seemed attached to him and Harry wasn't about to wear the blood of his son's friend.

"I'm going to bring you back to Sirius' house for tonight. Then we'll move you to a better safe house."

OoOoOoOoO

Apparently this had been the plan all along, because Sirius was in the front hall waiting for them.

"Got him," Sirius said, when his wand was trained on his heart and Potter had handed over Geoffrey's wand. Potter looked at him for a moment, his mouth opening and closing.

"Be nice, Sirius," he said finally, before he was dashing past them to the living room. There was a woosh as the floo too him elsewhere. Sirius turned to him, quizzically, obviously wondering about Harry's parting words.

"Don't do anything stupid," he said, but his voice was much kinder. "I'm not alone."

He led him, at wand point, into the kitchen. There was a red headed man sitting at the table, a brown haired girl, and _him. _His neck was still red from where Geoffrey's arm had pressed against it.

"Hello," the brown haired girl said, sipping at her tea. Normally Geoffrey would have paused in the door way for a moment - to observe his surroundings and assess the danger, but the wand at his back pushes him forward, into the room. Closer to _him_. No matter what Potter had said, it made the hairs on the back of his neck raise to be near this man.

"Hello," he said, regardless of his feelings. The wand jabbed into him again and in a fit of unease, he spun around.

"You have my wand," he seethed, "I cannot escape. Potter will kill me if you are harmed and there is no where safe for me out there, regardless. The least you could do is _speak to me, _as if I were intelligent enough to understand you. Or do you have a problem with what I am?"

"You see that man over there? He's my friend. I don't fucking care about 'what you are'. I do care that you almost killed Remus, though!"

He shook. The hairs on the back of neck stood on end.

"I was protecting the boy!" He said, growling. Had Potter told these people? Was this a sick secret that Potter kept so that the man wouldn't be tainted by the judgement.

"Remus would never hurt Devlin!" The red headed man said, looking indignant. He was the type of man who always spoke his mind, Geoffrey could tell. Reacted on instinct. Never thought things through. Geoffrey glared.

The boy had once told him that if one couldn't tell the truth, they often times shouldn't speak at all. So Geoffrey didn't - he remained silent, seething inwardly. The boy had been so small when he had first met him and it makes his heart ache to think of how much smaller he would have been when he was bitten.

_'Remus saved Devlin'_

_"_I was protecting the boy," he said, dully. Empty. What credit did he have here? It wasn't worth defending himself when they saw him as undefendable.

"From what?" The brown haired girl asked, her voice soft and thoughtful. "You attacked him without provocation. You told him not to get near Devlin, yet he hadn't even approached him. So why attack him. Especially since you were outnumbered and couldn't have expected to win."

"Potter meant for him to take the boy. It was perfectly logical," he said after a while. The wand was still at his back, but it was no longer jabbing. _He _was staring into his tea, submissive. "But Dubhán didn't deserve that. To be ripped away from me by _him? _I couldn't let that happen to him, not without...not without him knowing I'd try to stop it."

The red head looked furious as well as confused, the brown haired girl looked thoughtful once more, and _he _looked a bit more pale.

"You knew," _he _said, his voice wavering. "How did you know? Did...did Devlin tell you?"

Geoffrey looked at him solidly, observing every muscle that flexed on his face, across his shoulders, in his neck - looking for deception. There was only honest, agonizing, confusion.

"You're tame," he said softly, a statement rather than a question. He didn't need the man to confirm - everything about him did it on his behalf. "Of course I knew it was you that had bitten him. If you had gotten closer - if he hadn't been ill - he would have known too."

His wolf propelled him forward, until that wand jabbed into his back again and a hiss of warning came from it's owner. He was only three feet from the other werewolf.

"When he's a werewolf, he is all _mine. _My to keep safe, mine to reassure, mine to calm when he wakes screaming during the full moon from unknown nightmares. And when his eyes flash amber and he growls at the Dark Lord, he is _mine - _mine to shelter, mine to correct, mine to try desperately to make him see the ill logic of his reaction. I couldn't let you put your hands on him. He doesn't _remember _and I wouldn't let him feel that fear then - in front of people he doesn't yet know won't _kill him. _I was furious. Furious at you. Furious at Potter. What was he thinking, assigning you the job to drag the boy away from _me! _You might be his creator, but I have been his protector and it is _me _he would come running to if we all met under the full moon!"

He licked his lips, looking up at Geoffrey with a regard full of fear.

"Thank you," he said finally, fumbling to put his tea cup down without spilling the liquid. "I am glad he had you." Such a human. He didn't even pretend to lay claim for the boy. He was thinking with his human brain and Geoffrey looked away, disgusted.

"Why don't we all sit down?" The brown haired girl offered, motioning to the various empty chairs. "Sirius, I heard Harry in the hallway and this isn't being very nice."

The man grunted, but withdrew his wand and stepped back to take a seat for himself, next to the other werewolf. Geoffrey observed the room. He walked around the table to sit at the opposite end.

"Are you all waiting for something?" He asked suddenly, hating the silence. Silence fed his instincts and right now he needed to think in more human terms.

"For word of Devlin, of course," the other werewolf said.

"Then you will be waiting a while."

OoOoOoOoO

It began in his chest, where the original curse had hit. It always did, like a remembered sensation that would spread out, it's haunted tendrils becoming more and more _real _as it crawled against his skin, sinking into his body. And then it would consume him like an angry fire.

He felt it rushing into his veins, turning them into hot wires, his skins suddenly frigid around them. The pain was everywhere - stabbing him in the darkness when he moved, crushing him while was still. It crawled up is spine, sunk it's teeth into his lungs - tried to make him scream. But he _**wouldn't**_**. **

He swallowed the hot bile rising like acid in his throat and thrashed around, conscious of some kind of restraints around him. They felt like fire on his frigid skin, like the least touch would tear the delicate tissue. He tried to get free, but the burning touch became tighter, sending waves of pain deep into his bones. He could feel them reverberating beneath his raging, boiling, blood.

Something was forcing his mouth open. If he could feel and control his limbs he would have grabbed at it, but he can't. He chokes and sputters as luke-warm liquid pools in his mouth. He can't breath and his body gives a shutter as if reflexively swallows. The liquid felt freezing as it seeped into his stomach and he felt a fizz and sizzle as it put out the fire there. He stilled himself, feeling as if he finally could.

But then a moment later his whole body felt as if it were being _tugged_ and the pain he that he always felt skyrocketed beyond measure. He was no longer thrashing about, but that was little consolation - now he could _think _and _feel_ and know that there was supposed to be more than _just the pain_.

He felt like he could take no more - felt himself slipping under the blackness into the nothingness.

_Don't go there,_ whispered the voice, just like it had always done. He felt his body and mind give a big shake, and then fall perfectly still. He was surrounded by mist and he might have thought he was floating, except that there was grass beneath him, tickling between his toes. He looked down to find paws instead of feet. He was never the little boy here - always the wolf.

His body gave a great shake again and droplets of moisture flew from his thick coat to shimmer in the air before joining the mist once more. There was no pain here. He moved his body, more surprised than he ought to be, at the lack of pain. In here, he was never completely the wolf or the boy, but an odd mixture of them both.

For a long while he simply curled up upon the cool grass, content to be away from the nothingness and the pain. Then noises began to penetrated the fog like sharp knifes. His ears quirked at the sounds.

Voices - they interested him little. He curled up again, his ears flat to try and block the sounds out. Then, slowly, another sound approach. The clip of nails against the floor, hot humid breath against his face, _barking_.

His wolf shook and sprang to his feet. The mist was gone. They have escaped from the abyss. Their eyes open, pure amber.

_Hhuhh, huhhh, hhuhh. _The sound of panting. He turned slowly to come face to face with the animal, it's keen amber eyes trained on him.

"Devlin?"

Suddenly he was aware that one of his cheeks was _warm_ and his head was slightly raised, resting on something. Something that had _moved_. He scrambled backwards, closer to the animal and farther from the warm something.

Now he could see what it was - a man. He growled at him, his scent unfamiliar even as his face triggered memories. When the wolf and he came together it was always hard to decide who could remember properly.

The animal whined and his gaze flickered to him, understanding. _Wrong? What is wrong? _

But he cannot speak to the wolf like he would have, had he been a wolf. He tips his head, but the animal doesn't understand him. His gaze flashes back to the man, the _danger_, and he eyes him critically.

"Devlin, it's alright."

_Devlin? Since when were we that? _His wolf laughed, finding humor in the image of themselves as a little boy, so full of fear.

_Never,_ he replied, because it was worthless to think of when he was. He didn't speak to the man, having nothing to discuss with him. They would kill him soon. It didn't matter who he was or that they might have loved him once - love was worthless and didn't hold any power in the face of opinion.

_Still can't stand to hear him called a bastard, hmm? _Malfoy had once said to him, smirking while his grandfather wasn't looking. _Well get used to it, he'd call you one too, if he knew what you had done. You're a Dark Wizard now - he hates them more than anything. _

"It'll be okay," the man said again, trying to sound soothing even as he lied. _Lied, lied, lied! _Nothing was every 'okay'. He knew it better than most.

"Harry?" His eyes flashed away from the man - _but only for a moment_ - to look upon the new danger. It was the woman from earlier, who had stolen his wand. He drew himself farther away from them both. He didn't think he could stomach it if she killed him. He wasn't sure he would be able to meet her eyes or hold in his screams if it was her. "Leave him be for a bit. You're scaring him. He'll find us when he's ready. Emma is worried."

She didn't threaten the man, but he complied regardless - and he could see the man didn't _want_ to comply. He watched them leave and when they were gone it was only the _huhh, hhhuhh, huhh_ sound of the dog panting that was left.

A paw snuck onto the sofa and the dog looked at him with it's wide amber eyes, sniffing. He offered his hand, keeping his regard on the doorway through which the danger had left - only momentarily, he was sure.

"I don't suppose you know a way to escape, hmm?" The animal simply lapped at his hand with his wide, warm tongue. "No, I didn't think so."

He was on his own to find an escape, then.

OoOoOoO

Yes, I do suppose he is on his own to find an escape. Do you think he'll find one? Ha! I got you to read the Author's note, didn't I? Well don't stop now, please. Please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts about the story - good or bad. I have plenty of views on this story, but hardly any reviews and it's feeling a bit like it did with the original of this story - except I thought this rewrite was a hundred times better.

Anyways, thanks for reading the Authors note, even it was because of a bit of trickery ;)

Upcoming: The air was thick with the smell of healing potions, the room cool to counteract the boys skyrocketing fever, and every piece of furniture disturbed in some way or another. Voldemort twitched.

The boy was the only thing in the room that looked as if it had not moved. Until now. Those eyes fluttered and Voldemort approached, hovering above the child. He moaned.

The Healer rushed forward to wipe his hair out of his face with a damp washcloth.

Potter's hair would have stood up in more odd directions, but at the slight manipulation, this boys hair fell gracefully into a part - as if someone had just spent time to make him handsome. Voldemort could remember when his own hair had done the same.

He moaned again and his eyes fluttered once more. Open. Lush green like shaded moss, like dappled sunlight into a forest, like the scales of a snake. Like his own eyes, before he had split his soul.

He grabbed the boys shirt collar and brought him up to his face, his eyes examining him hungrily, seeking to devour this thought that had come to him most unexpectantly and couldn't be real.

**A bit of Voldemort up next, I think. :) **

**p.s. This chapter hadn't been rechecked yet, sorry for any errors. **


	5. The Man at the Table

He looked around, because that was what he was trained to do.

_You must always be aware,_ Grandfather had often said. _Did you see everything? Tsk - you only __**think**__ you have, look again. _

It was an ordinary room, he thought. He couldn't be sure, of course, because he hadn't been many other places but the camp. It was smaller than Malfoy's sitting room, more put together than Bella's house and...well that was all he had to compare it to, except for his sitting room. It was far _brighter_ than his sitting room, even with it being pitch black outside.

He tried the windows first - and they opened. His heart hammered against his chest and he almost threw his body forward, out of the window and into the small garden below, but then he paused.

_Ward's are tricky things, hmm? Little boys hardly ever notice them. It makes them a good tool for me, yes? _

He clenched his jaw at the mere memory of the slip up. He almost always noticed them, even then, but he had forgotten _once_.

_And almost again_, he thought, as he put his palm against the seemingly open space. He let his magic flow into his hand and inched forward until he felt a small jolt. Yes, there were wards. New wards - meant to keep him in. He could feel the magic jittering around, new placed, as it went about settling down. It's owner was still actively thinking about the magic - still influencing it beyond it's purpose. He'd never sneak past these wards - whoever had put them there was watching them far too closely.

_Human's make mistakes. It is their greatest weakness. Never assume they have thought of everything like you have. _

So he tried the other window, but it was the same. Still, they might have forgotten something. There were two doors out of the room - the one which the lady had stood at and another one, further into the room. He peeked out the one from which the lady and man had left, but he could see light that way, which probably meant they were there. He headed silently towards the other door.

The dog was following him, the soft clip of it's nails against the floor aggravating him. He was _trying _not to be noticed, after all. It was no use trying to lose the animal though - he could feel it's attachment to him. So he simply sent a wandless silencing charm towards it's feet. Silencing charms were another thing he had mastered in his time with Grandfather. He hated noise. The dog paused for a moment but then continued to follow him, through the small door. He was surprised it opened at all and he felt a surge of hope in his chest - perhaps they _had_ forgotten something.

With his renewed thoughts, he crept into the small windowless hallway. There was a door, but it didn't open, so he continued past. Another door, another lock. But these were old magic and it wasn't directed simply at _him_. Perhaps these were rooms they simply wanted to keep private.

He'd come back to them, if he couldn't find anything else. Chances were they would think him incapable of breaking through the locking charms and wouldn't have bothered to ward the windows in there. Still, he'd try everything else first, because the locking charms might signal an alarm.

The hallway came to an abrupt stop with one door ahead of him and one door to the side. He turned to the door at the end of the hall. Locked. His hand fell onto the knob of the second door and he paused in surprise when it opened.

It led into the well-lit hallway, except this time he had a clear view of the whole stretch. There were stairs to his right and three doors ahead of him. One of them had to lead back into the living room, which meant another probably led into the kitchen and the other into the library. He frowned at the certainty of his thoughts - at his _memories. _

He inched forward, for there was one more door. The front door. Taunting in its obviousness, tempting for the same reason. He crept past the kitchen where he could hear water boiling, past the library, past the living room he had started in...his hand was on the front door now.

He reached for the knob.

_Human's always forget things, especially those things right in front of them. You have to be smarter than them. _

The knob turned. He felt his chest heaving as his heart slammed and his magic buzzed.

"Please don't do that," a voice said softly. He spun around, magic lashing out around him like a storm, ready to defend. It was the man, standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing that stood beside them. He had been _watching _him.

He reached behind him, to open the door, not daring to look away from the man.

"Don't do it," the man said again. "You really don't want too."

"I do!" He said, his voice louder than he had intended. There was a scuffling sound in the kitchen.

"Please don't yell," the man said, his brow furrowing.

"Don't yell?" He repeated, incredulously. "Is that what you're bloody worried about? Yelling? What about me hurting you?"

"I'm not worried about that," the man said. The lady was standing in the kitchen doorway now, looking nervously between them. "But I did just manage to get Emma back asleep."

_Emma_.

He felt the memories bombard him and he had to shove them aside forcefully in his mind. Still, the blue eyes and fine baby red hair lingered.

The lady apparently didn't trust him as much as the man, because her wand was out already and a spell whizzed past him while he was watching the man.

The door locked beneath his fingers.

"He wouldn't have done it, Alex," the man said, softly. Stupid man.

"Really, Harry?"

"He found the wards on the windows, he would have found them on the door, as well."

"And set the alarm off! Try getting Emma back to sleep after _that_!"

So the man hadn't been stupid, he'd been trying to save him the trouble. He stared at the man hard for another moment. Mind games. He knew them. He'd gotten quite good at them, over the years. Yet he was only so very polished with his grandfather and these people didn't act at all like him. He remembered how hard it had been to learn just what to say, just how to act, in order not to be punished.

"Alex, you're worrying him," the man said, as if he actually believed his words.

She spared him a quick glance.

"No I'm not," she said after a moment. "He's survived Voldemort - we're of little worry to him."

A compliment, how unusual.

"Alex-"

"He's heard the name before, Harry. He's not six anymore."

Devlin stilled, trying to see their goal. Were they lulling him into a sense of false security? Grandfather had once tried to do such a thing, but it had taken so long that he had finally admitted to him that he _simply didn't have the desire or patience to set him at ease_. Perhaps they did, though.

"Devlin," the man began, coming down the stairs, "are you hungry? You haven't had anything to eat all day, or drink."

He was, certainly. _Very_ much so, but he made his body remain unresponding and willed his stomach not to betray him.

"Not for anything you would give me," he said caustically. The man seemed taken aback, the lady looked as if she'd expected no less.

"Then I think you should go to bed. The healer said you would need your rest and you won't get that right here," she said simply and she began to approach him. He growled at her. She'd already taken one of his wands and he sensed that if he took out his back-up one, she'd take that too. He recoiled from her hand on his shoulder, shrugging away.

"Don't touch me! I didn't say you could!"

The man frowned, but she simply pursed her lips.

She looked like Grandfather when she did that.

He felt fear flinch in his stomach as he _remembered_ who he was dealing with and why she had been able to take his wand. This was the woman that was more _Voldemort's_ than even he was.

"Then follow me on your own." It was a demand. He knew all about them. If he didn't, she'd threaten him, and if he didn't, then she'd follow through on whatever the threat had been and in the end he'd still end up doing whatever she wanted, just not by choice. He followed her.

She led him up the stairs and down a hallway and to a wooden door. She opened the door for him, motioning him in. It was painted in blue, the small bed covered in a bluish-green comforter, flying brooms and snitches racing across the walls and sheet. There were toys everywhere.

"We'll see you in the morning," she said, and began to close the door. Then she paused, her lips twitching. "If you need something, we're across the hallway and two doors down."

The man was fidgeting behind her and when she closed the door he heard him say '_don't you think that was a little abrupt, Alex?'. _She was replying, but he wasn't paying attention.

He remembered this room.

_Please Daddy, I'm stuck. _

He shrunk against the door, leaning there.

_It will be alright, Devlin_.

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He bolted for the window across the room, but it was locked. He leaned against the cool surface of the glass.

_Tsk, tsk...it's going to be alright? What's the boy going to think when he's screaming later? _

The moon was a sliver of a thing through his window, but he already knew that from the ache still left in his joints from the transformation two days ago. He clawed at the smooth surface, trying to pry it open. It stayed firmly shut.

_There is more than one way to torture someone, child_.

That's what they were doing. They were torturing him. He hated that it was working.

His body shook, as if the room were too chilled, and his throat suddenly felt impossibly dry. His chest rose and fell evenly, but he had long ago learned not to give the other werewolves such an obvious clue about his emotions.

He slid against the wall beneath the window, trying to reign in the thoughts that were racing through his mind. He was just tall enough to peer out the window while sitting on his knees.

He was facinated by the stars. The moon haunted him, an hourglass counting down to pain. He remembered the first time after being well again, that he had seen the moon with Grandfather. Half of him had expected it to have vanished, he supposed. Other things certainly had and he was no longer _that _boy, yet he was, because there had been the moon and it had counted down and the same transformation had over taken him.

_You can see the moon everywhere,_ Geoffrey had told him calmly when he had voiced the notion months later.

He had hated that; hated that _it_ was the same but everything else was different. Then he had grown older and when he looked up into the night sky, the whole picture had captured his attention. The moon was the largest and brightest thing there, but there was also the smaller stars, and just like the moon the stars _stayed the same_ too. Small things about him, besides being a werewolf, had stayed the same as well. If they hadn't been there to begin with, he wouldn't have survived.

_You can do this_, he told himself, staring at the stars.

He rose to his feet and wandered around the room. He fiddled with the waxy colored sticks on the desk that drew with the same onto paper. He flipped through the brightly illustrated books that couldn't hold his attention. He threw the soft toys off the bed and tried to lay down. He studied the pictures on the wall.

He tried and failed to distract himself until, hours later, when the moon was beginning to fade and the sun was beginning to rise, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing in the hallway. _Footsteps_.

He pressed himself against the wall as the footsteps came closer and closer.

_What are you doing cowering down there, child? Stand up straight - you face people straight backed and proud! _

The words resounded in his mind and he lifted himself up, but couldn't bring himself to move forward.

_Closer and closer_.

His hand inched towards his wand. The footsteps came to a pause outside of the door. He swallowed, picturing the hand on the knob, waiting for it to open and the real game to begin.

_Perhaps this time, when we play, you will scream for me._

But he _**wouldn't**_**. **

He tried to convince himself that he would be able to stare into their faces and be as stubborn as he had with Grandfather. _I won't scream_, he told himself - and he believed it, but he wasn't so sure he wouldn't cry.

Their was someone shifting outside his doorway and then...footsteps. Moving past the door. A moment later another door opened and closed and he could hear the sound of water running. Someone was using the loo.

_Water_.

As if to jab the point home, his throat constricted and his stomach churned. Surely water from the tap would be safe? He knew of no spell that was able to dispense poison only to one individual.

He waited for the footsteps to recede back up the hallway again and for the door to open and close. Then he crept toward this door, tentatively placing his hand on the knob. It was cool beneath his hot sweaty palm. He grasped it firmly, turned it, and gave a gentle tug.

The hallway was empty, except for the curled up form of the dog, laying across from this door. It's amber eyes opened at the sound of the door and it peered at him intently as it rose to it's feet.

He wasn't foolish - he might be a werewolf but right now he was in a human body which offered little protection from those sharp teeth. So, it was with some anxiety that he watched the dog approach him. The fact that it hadn't been aggressive earlier was of little reassurance to him - right now he was going against it's owners desires - leaving this room without their accompaniment.

He could close the door before it got to him, but to do that he would need to close the door quickly and they would surely hear that. Instead he stayed very still, eying the beast as it approached. It was larger than most dogs (although he was no expert) and it looked considerably _wolfish_.

When it was at the doorway it didn't snap, snarl, or sniff - it simply pushed past him into the room. He turned to watch as it sauntered over to the bed, leapt up, and laid down - as if it were _it's bed _and _it's room_.

"I think that is where I am supposed to sleep," he whispered, so that no one would hear. "Isn't yours meant to be on the floor?"

In fact, there was a rather large blue pillow on the floor in the far corner...he pointed to it to emphasize his point.

It eyed him with curiosity, arching one of it's eyebrows and cocking an ear.

"Stupid mutt," he said, turning around. He was terribly thirsty. He heard the beast huff behind him, but he was already in the hallway, closing the door quietly. He didn't want the animal escaping and alerting the man and lady. He counted his steps, taking into consideration that it had sounded like an adult's footsteps which meant that one of their steps was probably equal to two of his own.

When he looked up he was only a couple steps in front of a door. It opened soundlessly and gave way to just what he had expected. Despite himself, he smiled. There was a stool tucked between the toilet and sink, decorated in pinks - but he didn't need any stool. He turned the tap on and began to shovel the cool liquid into his mouth. It ran down his chin and onto the front of his robes, but he didn't care - it felt wonderful as it traveled down his throat. His stomach stopped churning for a moment.

When he could drink no more and had taken the opportunity to use the loo, he wandered back into the hallway. His hand was on the knob, but he paused, shuffling his feet.

He really didn't want to be trapped in there all day. The hall was empty, the house hushed, and he wondered if they would really notice if he wasn't were they told him to be, as long as he didn't attempt to escape. They hadn't come when he had used the loo...

He took a step away from the door and down the hall, towards the staircase. The house was hushed here too, a smattering of magical lights leaving it well-enough lit to see his way down the stairs easily.

He continued forward, taking each step on his tip-toe, expertly silent. Grandfather hated noise, but especially while he was sleeping.

The kitchen was just ahead and he wondered brilliantly if they would know if he used his wand - if he could, then he might be able to eat. He tip toed into the room, his fingers brushing by the concealed pocket on his leg seam, when he came to an abrupt halt.

The man was sitting at the table, twirling a clear glass of amber liquid in front of him. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of the alcohol came to him, backing up silently.

"Hello, Dubhàn," the man said softly, without turning around. "What's a boy your age doing waking up at this hour?"

He has had enough alcohol that his body seems relaxed, but not enough to affect his speech.

"I wasn't in a state from which one would wake up," he replied, just as quietly. Somehow the man didn't seem as intimidating, sitting here before the sun had fully risen, drinking. He laughed lightly at Dubhàn's words.

"Yeah, me neither. Why were you up?"

He thought the answer was plainly clear, but he begrudged the man the thoughtlessness this once, because he hadn't yet met a drunk man who could think quite right. That was probably why Grandfather refused to touch the substance.

"I was waiting for you to come to me," he said, stepping into the room a bit. The man's wand was laid out on the table...

He looked up into his eyes sharply, disconcerted.

"I'm sorry," he said, serious and almost-sober looking. "If I thought you wanted me to come to you, Devlin...I would have."

The reply threw him for a moment, because of course he hadn't _wanted_ them to come to him. It had been the anticipation of torture that had kept him up. He blinked.

"Aren't you going try and get me to talk?" He asked, taking another two steps closer to the man and his wand.

"About what?"

"My Grandfather and his men."

His brilliant green eyes narrowed as he attempted to sort out Dubhàn's meaning, probably failing miserably.

"I don't really care about them," he said finally, surprising Dubhàn again. He hadn't expected the man to actually understand. Perhaps he wasn't quite as inebriated as he had first suspected. He was giving him an appraising regard, twirling the amber liquid again.

"I don't believe you."

"Your mum is still asleep," he said, changing the subject. Dubhàn opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it again. It wasn't that he didn't understand who they were or who he was, but rather that he knew it wouldn't matter. When they understood, they would feel differently. They were light wizard's and he was dark. "Are you hungry? I could make you something."

"No," he said. "I'm not stupid." He did not want to die so quietly. If they were going to hurt him it would be with his wand in his hand, cursing them as well.

"I don't want to hurt you," the man said, raising to his feet and dumping the amber liquid down the drain. He turned around at the sink to regard him intently again. "Please let me make something for you to eat, Dubhàn. You can watch me - every movement."

The wand was still at the table, lying innocently on the wooden surface. Dubhàn looked at the man and tried hard not to look back at the wand.

"You eat it too," he said, trying to sound stubborn. "I pick which part you eat."

"Alright."

Dubhàn inched towards the table, settling himself in a seat and watching the man. After a few moments, he laid his hand on the table top and a few moments after that, he inched his hand forward, closer to the wand. The man was almost done making the sandwich. He cut it in two and was just about to turn around - Dubhàn grabbed the wand.

The man froze mid-turn, regarding him.

"Don't, Devlin," he said, sadness etching his face. "Don't try to hurt me."

"Let me go," he said smoothly, flicking the wand a bit to press his point.

"I won't do that. You are safe here."

"I was safe there, as well."

"By Merlin I hope you are just arguing with me and you are still capable of seeing the difference," he said softly. "Now stop aiming that wand at me."

_Stop aiming that wand at me. _

It wasn't what any respectable wizard would have said if someone was pointing their own wand at them. At every other instance, Potter has proven to be at least a knowledgable, intelligent, respectable wizard.

"We keep it around to do household things," he continued softly. "Alexandra thinks it's safer because she's horrible at leaving her's on the table while she cooks. It is charmed only to do a handful of spells."

His hand curled around the wooden stick, knuckles white. It was useless, but the weight of it in his grasp was a tiny shred of comfort. He kept it aimed at the man.

"Maybe you're lying," he said slowly, his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand.

"I'm not," he said slowly, inching closer to the table. Those green eyes, impossibly bright, were peering at him without fear. Dubhàn threw the wand back onto the table. He might have tried a spell, but if it hadn't worked, the man would have been angry and Dubhàn wouldn't have been in a good position to protect himself.

"This isn't were I belong," he said lowly, as the man put the sandwich in front of him.

"It must feel so strange," the man said, coming to sit across from him. He looked like he was about to say more, but interrupted himself to ask which part Dubhàn wanted him to eat. Dubhàn told him to eat half of each piece and the man laughed softly and told him he was certainly clever. The sun was rising, alighting the kitchen in warm pink hues. The man had almost finished the first half of one half. He passed it over to Dubhàn, who took it slowly, eying him with an intensity that could only mean he was watching to see if he was effected at all by some poison.

"He never told me, you know," he said softly, lamely, to the child. "Voldemort that is. I've dueled him since..." he let his voice trail off - somehow it felt impossibly painful to say 'your kidnapping' or 'your death', in front of the child. Alexandra was better at these things and she was right - he still saw him as the little boy he clearly wasn't anymore. _Don't belittle his importance to Voldemort Harry,_ Alexandra had urged him yesterday. Harry hadn't truly understood her logic, only that it had had something to do with how she felt Voldemort would have made Harry out to be (horrible, Harry was sure), how Voldemort had probably led the boy to think of him as better than them, and that Alexandra had pointed out that Devlin looked just like Tom Riddle. _Imagine what he would have said about that, _she had pleaded and Harry had tried, but he had never been very good at that type of thing and he felt he had failed miserably at her request. Still, he would do as she had asked, because Alexandra was one thousand times better at understanding other's emotions and thought patterns than he could ever fathom being.

"You must be important to him," he said and the words left him with a bad aftertaste. The boy was looking at him sharply urging him to continue. "Voldemort...he likes to taunt me about stuff and...for him not to taunt me about you..." Harry was stuck by the fact that he actually felt _betrayed_ by his enemy. Somehow Harry had always counted on Voldemort to make him hurt in any way he could, yet he hadn't. It made Harry furious, not just at Voldemort, but at himself. It was yet another clue he should have seen - if Devlin had truly been dead, Voldemort would have used every opportunity to taunt him with the fact.

There was the tiniest line beginning between the child's brows. Harry thought he might actually say something, but then a slight noise upstairs made them both still. The sun was more than halfway risen. There was the sound of water running through the pipes and then little feet racing down the upstairs hallway.

"Daddy?" That was Emma. She had probably seen his coat still hanging by his door (it was far easier to remember it there if he was called in the middle of the night). Normally he would be at work and Emma would be going to school, but they were too afraid to send her there today, incase Voldemort decided to get revenge by kidnapping _her. _

"Down here, sweety," he called, not moving. Devlin arched his brow as if to tease him about the nickname. It probably wasn't something he heard very often. Harry tried not to think about what things he _did_ hear.

His heart pounded nervously as he heard her climbing down the stairs, he swallowed hard at the slight rustle as her foot twisted and she turned, but even when he knew she was standing in the doorway, looking at them, he kept his eyes on Devlin, unafraid. He needed the boy to see he believed in him. That he was loved. That they did not want to hurt him.

"Daddy?" He turned to her now. She was still dressed in her pajama's, her hair in a loose disheveled braid, and her front tooth wiggled as she spoke. They had spoken to her briefly about the boy yesterday, but Harry knew she hadn't really understood. How could she, when he was almost positive she didn't remember him at all, except for the memories Alex and he had kept in her head, or perhaps simply _put_ there. He was the brother everyone knew she had once had. The unknown boy in the pictures of her as a baby. The boy whose name still made her mum and dad cry. Someone whose presents sat unopened under the tree year after year. He was a stranger to her. He might well have been an invisible friend, and indeed, there had been once upon a time that Emma had thought that was the case.

"Emma, this is Devlin," he said, motioning to Devlin and smiling at her reassuringly. She lingered at the door, her bare feet dancing lightly in uncertainty. Finally she stepped lightly into the room and over to him. She hid half behind him while she contemplated climbing into his lap and for a moment Harry couldn't help but recall the small boy hiding behind the monster.

"Daddy, why are you here and how come Mama isn't cooking breakfast? I'm gonna be late for _school_." Her body was pressed against his side and her hands were wrapped around his arm.

"We're all staying home today," he said, trying to inject excitement into his voice. "To have a family day!"

"Quinn is bringing in his bunny today, Daddy."

"Oh...perhaps we can ask to see it this weekend?"

She looked at him oddly, as if he simply weren't getting her point. But Harry understood her perfectly well, he simply preferred her not to know that - because if she did, he would have to explain to her _why_ they weren't allowing her to go to school.

"I want to go to school, Daddy," she said, with a bit of stubbornness leaking into her voice. She eyed Devlin nervously and Harry understood, no matter how painful it was for him to understand - Emma wanted everything to be as it should be, at least from her perspective. "Daddy?"

But how did he tell her that it might be weeks before they felt she could go back to school? How did he explain to her without her linking it to Devlin's appearance? How did he protect any desire she had to get to know him? And furthermore, how did he make sure Devlin didn't feel he had messed something up by returning?

He swallowed, trying to find the words.

"Emma..." Devlin's eyes were on him, boring into his soul. "Mum and I want you home for a little, so we can all get to know Devlin better, alright?"

Emma crumpled her brow, considering his words. It wasn't what _she_ wanted and Harry knew there was as much a chance that she would agree as that she would begin to cry. Devlin began to laugh. Harry turned to him, questioning. Emma hid another bit of herself behind him.

"What's so funny?" He asked, trying to sound intrigued and not disturbed.

"You. I guess you always try to make things sound better than they are." There was a caustic edge to his voice that seemed to carry more hatred than anything the boy had said to him so far. Harry leaned back, more hurt than he should have been by the words. It was true about him around his children, after all.

"I don't understand," he said softly. Emma clung to him.

"Tsk, tsk, of course not," he said, but then his eyes abruptly shadowed and he fell silent, his laughter vanishing from the air.

"Why aren't you happy?" Emma asked, innocently, from behind him. He sucked in a breath, afraid of Devlin's answer.

He looked at her, or at what little of her he could see from behind Harry.

"I want to go home," he said softly. "Would you be happy, if someone took you away from home?"

She shook her head sharply, digging her hands into the back of Harry's shirt fabric.

"But...Uncle Sirius said you were coming home..."

"No," he said and the clipped tone was back. As if the other had merely been a tactic that he realized wasn't going to get him anywhere. Harry knew it had to be so, because Voldemort might have honed Devlin's ability to employ false emotions to his voice, but he had been capable even as a small boy. It pained Harry to see him using his finesse this way, though. He remembered a time when the boy had used it to wrap everyone around his fingers, or get Sirius out of a bad prank. "My home is somewhere else."

Emma shifted behind him.

"Are you gonna help him get home, Daddy?" She asked, as if something had suddenly made _sense_ to her. It broke Harry's heart. Suddenly he wished selfishly that he hadn't turned Alexandra's alarm off, because she was so much better at these things, especially explaining things to Emma.

"No, sweetie...I'll explain it later, alright?" She nodded and he silently thanked Merlin that she wasn't in one of her 'why?' moods.

"Will you reach the cereal for me, Daddy?" She asked softly, pointing to the cupboard.


	6. The Other Werewolf

There were footsteps on the stairs, light and delicate and almost-silent, but he heard them, because he hears things almost no one does. He watched the doorway cautiously, waiting for the lady to appear. The little girl was busy eating, the man busy cooking and him - he had been busy fiddling with the sandwich. It wasn't poisoned - he'd eaten a bite from it already - but a churning in his stomach told him he wasn't going to keep much of anything down, so he wasn't going to put it there in the first place. His insides cringed at the mere idea of vomiting - in his opinion there was nothing else quite so _humiliating. _

Her blue eyes were sharp and observant with an edge of pure focus that reminded him of his own eyes. That was what he shared with her and she with Voldemort; and it was the thing he still remembered about her, after all this time.

Her eyes were on him in a heartbeat, looking at him with an intensity that was on par with the man's, but different. She was studying him, watching every muscle in his face, searching from one eye to the other, waiting for some emotion to flicker through them. He felt a bit like he were being memorized.

She greeted the little girl first, planting a kiss into her messy hair, touching her shoulders and whispering 'how are you, Emma?' into her ear. The little girl turned her head slightly, to look into the ladies face, and neither shook nor nodded her head. 'It'll be okay, baby,' she said softly in reply and of course he heard, because he hears almost everything. The little girl nodded and glanced at him as if _he_ were her problem. He wanted growl because she _simply didn't know_ and if she knew - if _they_ knew - maybe they would think differently of him, except he _wouldn't tell them_. He wouldn't allow them to know how weak he had been, to make Grandfather promise something like that.

"Hello, Devlin," she said now, turning her eyes upon him. He felt small again and fought to feel like himself under her gaze. She said his name with a hidden sharp edge - like a velvet covered knife - and he mastered the urge to correct her. He still remembered the strength of her magic against him and her willingness to use it - the man was hesitant but she didn't think twice.

"Hello," he said evenly.

The man had turned around to flash her a smile, which she returned half as flashy, but before he completely turned back to the stove, his eyes caught sight of the almost-uneaten sandwich.

"Hey, eat more of that, alright? Or maybe you'd like something else? I have some egg and sausage..." he said, but he already knew as much - the overbearing smell of grease and eggs had been working at his stomach for a while now. "Do you want some?"

"No," he said abruptly, pushing the food away from himself and trying to breathe deeply to keep the nausea at bay. He hadn't felt this sick since... - _don't think, don't think, don't think. _Oh Merlin, he was going to be sick.

"You have to eat something, Dubhàn," the man said, obviously trying to be appeasing by using the correct title. "One bite isn't enough. Please - come on, have some sausage, okay, or-"

He slammed his palm onto the table, effectively shutting the man up.

"That was uncalled for, Devlin," the lady said, frowning at him. The little girl looked scared.

He rose from the table quickly and darted for the door. The man grabbed at him and managed to grasp one of his arms, sending the rest of his body towards the floor - and _oh Merlin! _He threw up, right in the kitchen. His body retched, half bent over, as the man tried to grab him again and he continued to struggle. He was on his knees now and he felt his face flush with humiliation and degradation as his neck was forced downwards, sick. He was looking at the floor. _He was looking at the floor!_

The man flicked his wand and the mess was gone, another flick and he was clean as well. Now the man was crouching next to him and it was more than he could take, so he turned away and hid himself in his knee caps and arms.

He still remembered how the blonde man - _don't think, don't think, don't think! _

"Devlin?" The man was whispering, but he ignored him. He wished he could simply disappear and be saved from this humiliation. "It's alright. Do you need a potion?"

It wasn't alright. It was horrendously embarrassing and the man was simply lying to him, waiting for him to believe him and then he would point out how stupid he had been to believe. That was part of torture. Or maybe he really did care, but he _wouldn't_ and it was just like the food, then.

Eventually they would _know_ just who he was and then they wouldn't be acting like this and so he simply wouldn't accept it in the first place. Dubhàn was never the type to want things he couldn't keep. After all, desires were worthless causes that in the end only left one weak to disappointment when the desire did not come true.

He uncurled himself and rose shakily to his feet. This time, the man didn't help him, but his hands fidgeted at his sides, as if he were holding himself back. The lady was watching him with something akin to regret and he felt a pang of triumph that at least his humiliation made her feel bad as well. Uncalled for? Rubbish! He had been trying to save her the mess!

"Let me help you to the bathroom," the man said. His spatula was on the floor, the bacon sizzling and burning on the stove and it made his stomach ache more, because these were things that the man was ignoring _just for him_ and part of him wanted to melt into the little boy again and into his mans arms - but he _wouldn't_ because it wasn't going to _last_.

_You'll look a fool when they prove you wrong,_ Geoffrey had once said to him, cautioning his one-time bet with a couple other werewolves. This situation somehow brought those words to the forefront of his mind. Things always reminded him of other things. He had once told Grandfather that his mind worked a bit like a spider-web; one thread always linked to another related thread. Grandfather had been the only one to ever keep up with his far-fetched '_but oddly accurate' _associations.

"No," he said stubbornly. He brushed past the man. He paused just outside the kitchen door, half still there and half in the hallway. If he turned now to slink away to his room they would suspect he was still sick _- still weak -_ and so, unhappily, he walked into the living room. The dog that looked so wolfish had been let out of his room by someone and was curled up on the sofa. It's tail wagged and it's amber eyes raised slightly to meet his face. He didn't look him in the eye, but he was a dog, and Dubhàn forgave him for his pure animal limitations.

"Hello," he said and he almost laughed, because it had been the first hello that _he _had initiated since his arrival here. The wagging tail quickened and the dog's mouth opened. _Huhh, hhuh, huhh_. The appeasing panting had begun. It's entire body _wiggled_ in a way only a canine's could and Dubhàn sat beside him, reaching out a hand to be sniffed.

Sniffing quickly led to appeasing and friendly licking. It inched closer to his body, testing his boundaries. When he made no motion to stop it, it finally lifted itself up and gave his face a wide _slurth_ of a lick. Dubhàn crinkled his brow and wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve.

"Don't you think that was a little uncalled for?" He asked softly, cringing as the the remaining saliva dried on his skin. All he got in reply was more eager panting. Dubhàn pulled himself further onto the sofa and leaned back, slumping a little. The dog, following his body language, calmed as well. It laid it's head on his lap and Dubhàn began to draw circles on the soft fur of it's head.

In the kitchen Harry and Alex were attempting to have a conversation in front of Emma, meaning much of their meanings were being inferred from less than complete thoughts. Emma was frowning at them slightly, munching on her breakfast, and she was reminded of the times Remus would beg Uncle Sirius to '_read between the lines'_ when they both babysat her.

All she could completely understand was that her dad wanted to go and see the boy - Devlin -in the living room, but mum wanted to let the boy 'have his space' for a while. She wasn't so sure why they were talking so much about him, because they certainly never talked this much about whether or not to talk to _her_. She wasn't jealous, either, because this was just _odd_ and not the sort of thing _she_ wanted. It was like the boy was in trouble, except no one was angry. She frowned again, listening to the round-about conversation as she moved onto her pancakes.

OoOoOoO

Draco Malfoy was beginning to seriously consider using his money and influence to procure a time turner. It was a thought that had first occurred to him at around four am this morning, when he had received a summons from his Master and then been informed that 'the Potter brat' as he still referred to him in his own head, had escaped. At first it had been a passing idea as he scoured the local muggle village for any sign of the boy.

"_He wouldn't be this stupid," _another Death Eater had snarled at him. He was a werewolf and Draco scowled at having to be near him, but he was probably right - he was more likely to know about the boys stupidity level than him. "_Not again_."

But Draco hadn't had the time to question him, because as he had spun around to ask further, Auror's had appeared and before they were able to put Anti-apperation wards in place, Draco had left. It was what he was _trained_ to do, but it still earned him a hefty bout of screaming under the Dark Lord's wand.

There was a fresh out of Hogwarts Death Eater who hadn't left but instead had had the foresight (or so he said, Draco rather thought he said so to cover up the embarrassment), to have worn muggle clothes beneath his robes and had shrugged them off in an alley way and then ran screaming out into the street and into a muggle house. He boasted that he hadn't even needed to use magic to make the Muggle's moments later tell the Auror's that he was meant to be there. It was only the talisman that Voldemort made practically all of them wear that kept him safe from the memory modification.

So of course this _boy_ wasn't screaming or drawing in deep unsteady breaths right now - no he was bloody well _smiling_.

Draco tried to calculate exactly how many years, weeks, days, and hours he would have to go back in order to kill the Potter brat rather than kidnap him alive, as his nerves twitched and his muscles spasmed.

OoOoOoO

Harry knew it would happen, but it didn't change that his blood was boiling and his magic was freezing the air around him. Kingsley didn't look to happy to see him, even though it was him that had come to Harry.

"You have to understand Harry-"

"Don't talk to me like I'm you bloody colleague right now! Just don't!"

Kingsley shook his head sadly, bringing his hand up to rub at his face. He looked weary and exhausted and Harry knew he had probably been up since late last evening. Probably no more than an hour after that freaking Healer had seen Devlin.

"_Was he tortured?" "A long time ago." _

Harry slammed his fist onto the kitchen table, glad that it was the middle of the night and that Devlin and Emma were fast asleep. "They're worried he'll be the only source," the man said, openly leaning backwards away from Harry's anger.

"I don't care what he knows!" Harry said, softly. He was always viciously surprised by the Ministry's willingness to disregard humanity.

"But they do Harry and if he were anyone else-"

"He isn't anyone else!"

"Which is exactly why Voldemort might have felt secure telling the boy things..."

Harry knew that was true also, but it didn't change that he didn't care.

"What about the Death Eater - Gregory."

"Geoffrey Goddard?"

"Yes, him," he said, waving a dismissive hand. The man's name had no use to him.

"There are things he is...refusing to talk about..."

Harry looked up, angry words for the man on the tip of his tongue, but something in Kingsley's eyes made him pause.

"Like what?"

"Like the boy. We can't use truth serum on him, at least not with a guarantee that what he says is really _true_, because he's well equipped at Occlumency."

Why wouldn't the Death Eater talk about Devlin?

"We did get one of the new captured ones to speak, though. Before you went to Devlin, you were called into a Death Eater raid on a little town-" Harry nodded "-and we've since learned they were looking for _Devlin_ there."

"How'd you know to ask that?" Because it took specific questions to guarantee accuracy with truth serum.

"The leader of the crew mentioned it was the town Ms. Watson was found in - a well known escapee of Voldemort." Yes, Harry remembered her. He tried not to think of her now.

"So you think...you think it's close to there?"

"Yes."

He rose from the head of the table to walk around it, suddenly feeling far-from tired and full of jittery energy. Kingley was seated the other end of the table, and by the time Harry made it around him, the man was peering sideways, as if in his own thoughts. Harry continued his pacing and it wasn't until he had turned the corner and come up on Kingsley's other side, that he realized that the man hadn't been peering into his mind but at the boy in Harry's hallway.

His skin was pale like cream in the dim lighting, his lips light and frowning, his hands hanging listlessly at his sides, and his eyes had an eerie brilliancy in the magical lighting, making them look more like Harry's than Tom's. But even though he was still dressed in the pajama's Hermione had bought and delivered at Alexandra's request and he had obviously _slept_ at some point (Harry had seen it with his own eyes!), his hair remained perfectly parted.

He looked like a little ghost and it took Harry a moment to remember he was _real_ and he wasn't just imagining him this time.

"Hey buddy..." he said, cringing at the lameness of his words. The boy's lips twitched in his own disgust at the name, but he didn't move. "What are you doing up?"

"I heard someone outside," he said softly and he must have meant Kingsley. There was disappointment in his little green eyes and Harry tried not to show his hurt or his understanding about who the boy had _hoped_ was outside Harry's house.

"This is a friend of mine from work," he said softly, leaving the man's name off on purpose.

"Shacklebolt," the child said, throwing the name at him just as purposefully. Kingsley made a noise in the back of his throat that Harry translated with ease: 'see he does know things'. Harry sent the man a glare over his shoulder.

"Harry, I'll talk to you tomorrow, alright?" Harry nodded and the man left, through the back door. Harry remained watching the boy for a long moment after the Auror had left.

"You haven't killed him?" The boy asked, softly. His hands shook and his dark green eyes bore into him.

"Who?" Harry asked, surprised and confused.

"Geoffrey."

"No..he's safe." Harry had made sure of that, even if he hadn't bothered to learn his name. The boy nodded, like he had more to say about the subject, but preferably not to Harry. Not that such was unusual - he didn't seem to prefer anything about Harry, or Alexandra, or Emma. The only thing he had shown a spot of affection to was Zee. "Were you worried about him?"

Those green eyes found him again, sharp and full of offense.

"He's a traitor," he said tightly, clenching his hands at his sides.

"Sometimes what people feel is right...changes. Sometimes they have to do what they feel is right, even if it is at the cost of betrayal," Harry said lightly, gauging the boys reaction - which was minimal, to say the least. Harry thought the boy might simply prefer to stare at him with those haunting eyes for the whole night (and Harry would let him), but then his body shifted and his mouth opened.

"I won't, you know." It took Harry a moment to understand and when he did he felt that all-consuming worry that only his children could make him feel. Harry struggled to find something competent to say to the boy, something that would help him see that he had been _rescued_ not _kidnapped_, but before he could utter a word, the child had turned on his heel and swept up the hallway. Harry stood there for a long time, listening to his footsteps leading back to his room. He should ask why the boy had been awake, except that he knew the child wouldn't tell him. He should follow him, except that Harry knew the boy wouldn't want him too.

He should - but he simply didn't have it in him. He hadn't really slept since Devlin's return and he didn't think he would be able to sleep tonight. He settled down at the table, cradling his head in his hands, and wept.

Upstairs Devlin sat on the bed, contemplating his own inability to sleep. He could no longer think as clearly as he needed and he knew the only remedy was sleep. Yet in this state of mind he knew that sleep would only lead to nightmares and the last thing he wanted was to have the lady and the man hear him screaming without them even trying!

He peered at the dog that had decided it _did_ belong in the room and _on the bed_.

"Would you like to see a trick, Zee?" He asked softly, regarding the dog until it lifted it's head a bit and peered back at him. When he stayed silent for a moment longer the dog let out a half-whimper half-bark. He smirked.

"Alright but we have to put up a bit of...security." He slid off the bed and over to the door. He didn't dare to use his wand - he'd felt the wards a bit and was almost-certain they would know if he used a wand. He'd asked the little girl if she could do magic and she had said yes 'accidentally' which meant their wards would expect a bit of 'accidental' magic, even if his was going to be done quite on purpose. He reached his hand towards the lock on the door and pulled his magic to the surface. It vibrated beneath his skin, making him break out in goosebumps. A moment and a focused thought later and the door was locked - magically.

They man and the lady could still get through, but only if they also used magic. For good measure he also cast a silencing spell, or as close to one as he could get without a wand. Accidental magic, even applied purposefully, still had its limits - although age and mastery were making them few and far between for him. He could do almost anything with without a wand that he could with a wand. Still, there was a lot he couldn't do with either. He was only nine!

Zee was watching him thoughtfully, one ear cocked more than the other.

"You see, I told Grandfather that I wanted to learn how to brew the Wolfsbane potion, but he said he didn't have the Potion Master to spare, so I was allowed to learn this trick instead..." He crawled back up onto the bed, palms and knees sharing his weight. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think of what it would be like, to be covered in soft fur like Zee. He was practiced enough that the transformation came with ease - he felt the shifting in his bones, across his skin, and to his nose - which was always the oddest and always made him feel like he wanted to sneeze, but couldn't.

He yipped and Zee stood abruptly on the bed. The dog seemed taller now, of course, just as he must seem smaller. They sniffed each other - Zee seemed thoroughly confused. He made himself behave, since all he really wanted to do was sleep. _Without nightmares_. It was harder to think like a human as a wolf and it made it especially hard for nightmares to plague him. He snuck close to Zee, trying to convince himself that it was a moon-day and he was home, even though his whole body felt different as a wolf rather than a werewolf. The dog allowed his closeness, although part of him was still confused and nervous, the little wolf knew. He fell asleep half on the dog, with his butt in the air, his tail tickling the dogs ear as it lay to one side.

OoOooOoOooO

When he woke up it was still dark through his curtains, but he knew he wouldn't get back to sleep, so he jumped off the bed and transformed. There were footsteps out in the hallway. He laid on his stomach and peered through the gap at the bottom of the door, a strategy he had picked up with Grandfather, who _always_ noticed when a door opened. The footsteps were from someone wearing black boots and a moment later a white cape swooshed around and came to settle above the boots. There had been a white robe hung outside of the man and the lady's room...

So the man was leaving.

He waited, holding his breath and pressing his ear against the door.

"Are you almost ready, Harry?"

It was the lady's voice. They couldn't possibly _both_ be leaving.

He heard the slight woosh of the floo moments later.

They couldn't have both left...they wouldn't leave the girl, would they?

Hadn't she spoken about a school?

He crept out the door and into the hallway and down the stairs; all the while his heart hammering against his ribcage at the prospect that he was alone. Except he wasn't.

The man from the odd little house was sitting at the table, across from an unfamiliar man - drinking coffee. They were staring at him now, their expressions an unusual mixture of surprise and preparedness. He felt frozen in the doorway, afraid to make any sudden movement.

"Hello," the new stranger said, running a hand through his black hair. He was well-dressed despite wearing what appeared to be a rather muggle styled leather jacket. His hair puffed at bit after his hand was finished, making it look more dashing rather than messy and his blue eyes came to regard him with an intensity Dubhàn hadn't felt since the green-eyed man looked at him after he first woke up.

The stranger that Geoffrey had attacked remained quiet, observing him with the same intensity that the other was, but with a more closed expression. He would have preferred Dubhàn not notice him, Dubhàn was certain. But he couldn't look away.

There was something uniquely intriguing about him that went beyond the fact that Dubhàn _thought_ he knew him or that he was a werewolf. After all, he _thought_ he knew a lot of things about this world, but the feeling that rose in his chest while he was trying to remember this man, was quite different. He couldn't exactly detect _what_ was so intriguing.

He turned more fully to the man that didn't want his attention, cocking his head to the side slightly and angling his shoulders in a questioning and slightly appeasing manner. The movements still came easily, this soon after the moon. But the man had no reaction and Dubhàn wasn't sure if it was because he was unwilling to lend him some reassurance, or because he simply did not wish to partake in his rather wolfish communication.

"You're a werwolf," he said instead as the dark-haired man put his cup of coffee down and looked at his watch, tapping it as if had suddenly stopped working.

"Yes," the grey-haired man said softly as he too put his cup down. He stood slowly, approaching him.

"Geoffrey was angry with you," he said, knowing his eyes were taking on the amber hue as the wolf awoke in his mind. It took a lot to anger Geoffrey and the boy in him urged him to take another step away from this man who Geoffrey hadn't wanted anywhere near him.

"That is true," the man said.

"Why?" He asked. Somewhere deep down, his wolf knew the answer - it's knowledge was evident in the way it over-took his senses and in the way his shoulder began to throb dully.

And so, when the man began to answer, the wolf in him wasn't all that surprised by the words.

"Because I bit you, when you were very young."

After a long moment of silence the werewolf reseated himself, sighing with an air of defeat. Dubhàn stood frozen at the door, a rare moment of uncertainty overtaking his thoughts. The wolf in him was pleased to see this man, but the boy couldn't be sure. Geoffrey hadn't wanted this man near him. There was only one type of werewolf Geoffrey wouldn't let him near and it was the kind that would gladly bite anyone, child or adult. The kind that were cruel and ruthless and _insane_.

But this man looked like neither of those things - he looked rather tame, to be honest.

"Remus won't hurt you," the other man said, but it was unnecessary, because he already knew that.

They were both probably waiting for him to make the next move, but he was frozen in a limbo of _knowing _and _not knowing _and he couldn't think of what to do next, let alone command his body. He stared into the werewolf's eyes for a long moment, frowning while he felt that _knowing _but _not knowing_ feeling swell around him. And then he remembered being thrown in front of Voldemort and how it had been his wolf that had protected him from Crucio and insanity. Suddenly it didn't matter why this man had bitten him - without the bite he would have died.

"I'm not afraid," he said, vaguely recalling the black-haired man's words. He took a step forward, lingering squarely in the doorframe now. He leaned against one side, trying to look casual and knowledgable, even as that odd feeling clung to him like a dense fog.

"Good," the strange man said, relaxing a bit. "Do you want something to eat?"

He shook his head. He was no longer so afraid of poison (he had eaten a bit of dinner last night), but he still felt like he would throw up and he wasn't about to tempt fate around men he didn't know.

"Harry said you'd probably say no," the man continued, trailing off as he stirred his tea.

"Where is the girl?" He asked softly, glancing up the stairs. It was quiet up there.

"Probably asleep like any normal person should be; it is four in the morning."

"What about the man and the lady?" The two men stiffened at his words and after a moment he thought it was likely because he hadn't referred to the lady and the man as his parents.

"Your mum and dad went to the Ministry to pick up some paperwork they left - so they can finish it at home." He chose to ignore the new man's labeling of the lady and the man.

"They left you here to make sure I didn't escape."

"Yep."

He slid his hands into his pajama pockets, wishing he was wearing robes or at least something a bit more _dignified_ than bright blue flannel pajama's _with whales_. It was down right impossible to look mysterious or commanding in this outfit. The pockets weren't at the right height, to begin with. They left his elbows lank, rather than out a bit, like a blazer would have. The fabric was loose around him, moving when he moved, and it made him itchy. If they hadn't taken his backpack, he would have had Wizarding clothes to change into.

"What is your name?" He asked sharply, trying to at least _sound _commanding.

"Sirius," he said brightly, and he wanted to scowl because apparently the pajama's also made it impossible for his commanding voice to have any effect.

"Black?" He asked and the man nodded. He strode into the room, pulled out a seat, and sat down. "Bella told me about you." He said evenly, watching the man.

"Is that so?" Sirius said, and he could tell he had hit a nerve.

"Yes, that is so."

"What did she say?" His teeth were clenched, his voice a forced calm, and his lips a mastered smile.

"Oh, lots of things. But Bella's not quite right in the head, so I can't be sure what was true." It was the truth, but it was also meant to calm the man - he wasn't foolish enough to make the man _mad_ when he had no way to escape.

"Yeah," he said, looking like he wanted to say more, but holding back.

"So doesn't this house have a backyard or something? I've been stuck inside for two whole days."

They shared a look across the table while he pretended to wait patiently for them to consider his pathetically easy to answer question.

"It has, but you'll have to ask your dad or mum about going outside."

"Surely you two are competent enough to make sure I don't go anywhere..." he drew circles on the table, injecting just enough jab into his words for them to be believable - these two knew he wasn't some innocent toddler.

"That's irrelevant," the werewolf said softly, "it is up to Harry and Alex."

"Well then, when will _Harry and Alex_ be back?"

There was pity in the werewolf's eyes and anguish in the other's eyes. They felt something for him, like the man and the lady, and he scowled, because he didn't understand what to do with their emotions.

"In a couple hours," Sirius said, trying to sound reassuring, which was foolish, because he didn't need _reassurance_.

"He'll come get me, you know. No matter if the man never lets me go outside, he'll come rescue me."

They didn't have anything to say to that, apparently. They swirled their tea, they tried to start small talk, they talked to one another about Quidditch scores, which led into bickering, which lead to bickering (an odd sort of cheerful bickering that he had never encountered before) about all sorts of random topics.

Until finally, minutes after the clock said it was six in the morning, the lady and the man reappeared from the floo. He was almost happy to see them, because he was so tired of seeing the other two men that he could almost throttle them (and their small talk!).

**Please Review! It means a lot to me. It only takes a second. :) **


	7. Acceptance? Of a Sort

They were chatting softly in the living room, oblivious to him and his annoyance in the kitchen. Having had enough, he got up and went into the living room.

They were standing close to each other, one hand intwined in another, talking. They looked worried and at peace at the same time. He felt his head throb with all the contradictions that this world seemed to be full of, leaving room for doubt and belief and opinions that he wasn't used to being able to form so freely.

"Hey," the man said, spotting him first. There was a look of happiness in his eyes, even as worry and fear crowded in as well.

"You left," he said, letting the annoyance seep into his voice. He tried to ignore the swell of _feeling_ that had crept into his stomach and forced his mind to choose _those words_. Surprise and hope came to join the fear, worry, and happiness in the man's eyes. The lady smiled slightly.

"We're sorry," the man said, coming towards him.

"It don't care that you left," he said, defensively, "but you left me with _them_! They're annoying."

There was a tiny humored smiled on the ladies face, but the man seemed not sure what to think of his comment. It was clear to him that the man felt too much at once, already. He wasn't entirely sure how one _could_ even feel fearful, worried, happy, surprised, and hopeful all at once!

"I'm sure they weren't all that bad," the lady said kindly. She moved towards him, but it was to move _past _him. At least she wasn't as coddling as the man. He scowled at her back, regardless. Perhaps she had _known_ what torture it would be - made worse by the fact that he had almost thought he was alone!

The lady left into the kitchen, presumably to tell the two men they were back. Now he was alone with the man and all his confusing emotions. They made the man more vulnerable, in ways - he could sense that at least. He had to think about his reactions, whereas the lady was quick and determined.

"They wouldn't let me go outside," he said softly, complaining. He looked up through his fringed at the man. "I hate staying inside."

The man's brow crumpled in thought.

"You have to understand Dubhàn, how afraid I am of losing you."

It was not the response he had anticipated and planned for and he felt his body take a step back, even as his head swayed a bit and his own brow crumpled, in weariness. Afraid of losing him? Afraid? Him, inciting fear?

_Fear is for lesser beings than you and I. _

But inciting fear wasn't for lesser beings - Grandfather _liked_ when he made others afraid. He wasn't sure what to make of the man's confession - whether to feel a swell of triumph or a swell of fear himself. The man took a step forward and bent onto a knee in front of him. They were eye to eye now - now he could see all the emotions up close in those brilliant green eyes.

"I love you so much, Dubhàn," he said softly. Dubhàn felt trapped - not physically, but in his thoughts. Love him? And there it was, plainly visible in those green eyes. He felt trapped in those green eyes - so full of emotions and power. Power like his Grandfather - demanding attention, requiring caution. Even though Potter wasn't _as_ powerful as Grandfather, he was close and the fact that someone who was _close_ in power to Voldemort could show these emotions and not be weaker for them, baffled him. It tipped his world on it's axis. _Love him..._

He didn't understand it. He could mimic every expression he had ever come across, but he felt sure he couldn't make his eyes or face like Potter's were now - full of _love_. It wasn't like kindness or anger that you could appear to have felt without feeling it - it seemed to him you had to genuinely _feel_ this to show it. And if that was true how was he ever to compete in this world? If Potter expected him to reciprocate this emotion, how was he ever to stay safe? Perhaps they would find out that he was more like their enemy without even having to find out what he had done - they'd see it in his inability to mirror _this _look back at them.

He shook himself.

"How would you feel if you were locked up inside forever?" He said stubbornly, trying to shake that expression off of Potter's face with his own one full of determination and hatred. Maybe he could make Potter not love him, and then he would send him back to Voldemort without a fight. Potter's face fell.

"I want you to go outside," he said, determination in his own voice too, that love still sparkling incessantly in his eyes - taunting Dubhàn with his inability to copy the emotion. If he could, he felt Potter would have believed anything he said. "But I want you to be safe more."

Potter's hand had crept onto his shoulder and he took this moment to push it off with his hand and stomp his foot. It was childish, but he felt reduced to such behavior - unable to play Potter's game at Potter's level. _Love_.

"I'm not yours to keep!" He said softly, but with an edge of deadliness to his voice. _A velvet covered knife._ He spun away from Potter and out into the hallway. The werewolf was standing there, by the stairs - as if he'd been headed upstairs but been frozen along his way. He tried to brush past him, but the man caught his upper shoulder and the wolf inside of him refused to allow him to fight _this_ man. It was only respectful, he knew. It was what any decent werewolf would do - listen to their elder. Especially a pup like him. For one fleeting moment he wished he hadn't ever let that sharpness into his mind, but then in the next second he knew better.

"I never wanted to hurt you," the werewolf said kindly, with awkwardness lingering in his tone. Dubhàn shrugged in the grasp - but not out of it - and frowned.

"You didn't," he said, after a moment, the anger with Potter still hanging on his tongue. "Being a werewolf saved me. I would have gone insane if I hadn't been." He was certain the werewolf didn't really understand, but he didn't want to give more information than that. Let him be confused. If it was entirely up to him, he'd have stomped away, after all. His gut churned with his wolf's feelings on his thoughts. _Guilt_. The werewolf felt guilt for Dubhàn's thoughts - an emotion Dubhàn did not often feel himself.

"I didn't want to hurt you, but I am glad it kept you alive," he said softly again, the awkwardness still there. "I wish that you could see how much everyone here cares for you."

"They care about that little boy - not me," he said bitingly and the werewolf's eyebrows rose up in surprise.

"They care about their son - you are part of them."

"Do they care about part of _him_, because I'm that, too!" His voice was a whisper full of anger and concealed fear.

"Part Voldemort?" The werewolf asked and Dubhàn nodded sharply. "So is Alexandra." Dubhàn shook his head just as sharply.

"It's not the same. She pretends she isn't. I'm part _him_ and I don't pretend it isn't true. They should all hate me for it, but they don't, because they think they will make me want to pretend it isn't true, too."

"You give your mother too much credit and the rest of us too little," he began slowly, peering at him softly. "But none of that matters to me, Devlin. When I look at you I don't think of Voldemort, or the little boy, or Harry, or Alex - I think of _you_. I think of you as being _mine_ and it makes my heart ache at the same time it makes my heart speed up with joy. You have no idea how happy I was when Alex wrote me and said you were _alive_. I had thought I had lost you forever."

He was tame, Dubhàn could tell, but his brown eyes took on an amber hue and the significance wasn't lost on him. His wolf had thought Dubhàn had been lost forever too.

OoOoOoO

_The boy was afraid. _

Geoffrey couldn't stop shaking with fear that was only half his own. Across the table the Hermione girl stared at him intently, nursing a cup of tea. She'd taken over for Sirius Black. Now, it seemed, they thought he only needed one babysitter.

What threat could he be, when he could hardly breathe?

Geoffrey imagined Voldemort was sitting somewhere thinking of him and having a good laugh at the idea that Geoffrey had once even _imagined_ he could escape punishment from Voldemort.

He had known two months after Voldemort had cast the dark spell upon him, that it had worked. The boy had run across one of the more _extremist_ werewolves and Geoffrey had felt a twinge of fear that was not his own, as well as pain and desperation that was _all_ _his_. He had felt the desperate need fix whatever had upset the boy. It was as if he had been ill and the boy had been the only draught that would save his life_. _The feeling hadn't lasted very long and it had seemed to subside the tiniest bit with his _action_ - as soon as he had begun running for the boy from across the camp, it had been _bearable_.

The full extent of Voldemort's magic had eluded him, until now. Now, when he couldn't _do anything_. There was no dulling the feelings - no making it _bearable_.

No breathing without pain.

No sleeping.

No uninterrupted thought.

_The boy was upset_.

He let out a groan, only to clench his teeth against the next wave of _pain-guilt-desperation-fear-torture-worry. _

"Do you want another pain draught?" The girl asked, still sipping at her tea. Part of him wanted to hurt her for the mere fact that she could breathe while he could not, but he mastered the urge.

"No," he said, because he knew it wouldn't help for but a moment. "What is _happening_ to him?" He tried to ignore the desperate edge to his voice. She put her tea down slowly, her brow furrowing in thought and her hands shifting with unspoken words.

"Is it really that bad? Harry told me just last night that he seems better than Alexandra thought he would." Last night Geoffrey had gotten a couple blissful hours of sleep...the boy had been calm...

He laughed dryly at the humor she couldn't see in her own words.

"When you think he is being better than you thought he would, you should be afraid." He dug his fingernails into the wood of the tabletop, trying to complete one sentence without groaning or swaying in pain. "He's clever."

"Yes, Alexandra told me as much," she said, sipping at her tea again, as if he weren't as interesting now. Perhaps, more so, she hoped to illicit more from him than he from her. He fell into silence without much trouble, holding his head up with his hands. He might have gone to lay down, but that would have required communicating with the girl again and asking _permission_ and then she would only follow him and watch him.

"We're home!" It was Sirius Black's voice, oddly cheerful. He parted his hands just long enough to see who 'we' was, and shuttered them again as the two men took a seat at the table. It was while they were making idle chat about the weather that he smelled it - _the boy_. On the werewolf.

He parted his hands and lunged forward, more than a little out of his mind with the _pain-guilt-desperation-fear-torture-worry_ constantly thrumming in his chest. The smell of the boy - the slightest possibility that he could _do something_ set him off. For a moment he could think and breathe. For a moment the _pain-guilt-desperation-fear-torture-worry_ dulled and became _bearable_.

"You saw him," he said, desperately. His hand was curled around the werewolf's shirt, pulling him towards him, or he towards the werewolf - he couldn't be sure any longer. "You saw Dubhàn."

"Yes." He wanted to hurt the man for the one word. Wasn't it obvious that he wanted -_needed-_ more than _one bloody word_?

"What is _wrong_?" He asked (begged) as he heightened himself so at least he was physically higher than the _tame _werewolf.

"He thinks they'll hate him," Remus said softly, looking right into Geoffrey's eyes. "He's sure they already would, if they would simply stop seeing him as the boy he used to be."

The _pain-guilt-desperation-fear-torture-worry _returned as he fell back into his seat with a groan.

"Maybe they would," he said, caustically. "Maybe this was all a mistake."

_PAIN_.

It exploded in his head and it took him a long moment in which he didn't breathe, to realize that the pain was _physical. _The _tame_ werewolf had _punched_ him.

OoOoOoO

There were pictures of the little girl all around the house - as a baby, as a toddler, as a little girl spinning unsteadily in princess dresses, and as herself as she looked today. There were pictures of the man and of the lady too - but never by themselves - always with a child. The child in the pictures wasn't always the little girl, either. There were ones, like this one, of a green-eyed boy.

He pulled it off the side table to peer more closely at its occupants. The man was throwing the boy into the air. They were laughing - together.

This wasn't the picture that haunted him the most, though. He couldn't begin to remember what it was to be a carefree boy like the boy in the picture, and so it was easy to disregard the boy in the frame as he laughed and clung to the man, breathless.

No, it was the picture that had been settled upstairs in the hallway that haunted him. He hadn't seen it, until just earlier. It lay hidden beneath the man's coat, except that he had taken the coat with him when he had left and the picture had been _exposed_ when he had stormed upstairs after speaking to the werewolf.

He had frozen when he had seen it - seen the boy staring out from the photograph. The boy who wasn't laughing. The boy who wasn't smiling. The boy who had his focused green eyes and his thoughtful frown. _Him_. With flecks of amber swimming in dark green pools and with lips that fidgeted in thought. _Him. _

"Devlin?" The man asked softly, from the doorway to _the room_. Light was still spilling through the curtains and he thought he could stand the room, as long as there was light and the door was open. "What are you doing?"

He meant the pictures, of course. There were at least a dozen frames spread out across the little bed, with him in the corner, looking at them all. He didn't bother to look up.

"Why did you have a picture of me under your coat?"

"To remember you," the man said, his voice wavering with awkwardness.

"I'm not smiling," he said, pointing to the picture that now lay on the bed.

"You were mad at me," the man said and even though he still hasn't looked up, he can hear the man shuffling his feet.

"I don't remember," he said, still fingering the least haunting of the pictures - the tiny little boy being thrown into the air, laughing. The boy was small in the picture - too small to run properly, probably.

The man shifted again, and then broke past the doorway and into the room. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his shoulders pushed up, and he fished a hand out of a pocket to move a picture aside. He sat down on the bed with him and he mastered the urge to demand he move. He hadn't invited the man, after all.

"It's understandable not to remember," the man said softly, brushing a finger along the photo of a boy kissing a babies head - a baby who had to be the little girl, with those brilliant blue eyes.

"I'm not that boy anymore, you know." He pushed the picture of the boy laughing in the air towards the man. "I'll never be him - ever - and you should send me back, because I'm not yours anymore."

The man took the photograph in his hands, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as he peered at it, but his words ruin the smile and now instead there is a tight frown and those killing curse eyes, so full of life, come to regard him painfully.

"You'll always be my son," he said softly, as if all the air had been stolen from his lungs. "Always. I'll always love you. I'll always want you here - with me."

"I'm not yours to keep," he said firmly. "You should give me back."

"You have been given back! You've been given back to _us_. It was from here that you were _taken!" _There was disbelief and frustration and worry and fear and so much else in those eyes and in his voice. It all made his head hurt and his heart pound. He surged to his feet on the bed, towering over the man.

"I know! I know! I know!" He said powerfully - loudly. The man had frozen and there must have been something in his wild gaze that made the man _pause_, because then he was looking at him, his face turning ashen. "I remember _that_," he finished, unable to keep it to himself.

_I remember you didn't save me_. _I remember how nothing was alright. _

Those killing curse eyes closed for the briefest moment and his whole frame _slumped_ with defeat.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. Words no powerful wizard was ever supposed to say to someone like him - someone so _less_ powerful. "I'm so sorry I didn't save you."

There were tears on those cheeks, fear in that voice, and _love_ in those eyes and it all made him feel so trapped and uncertain. He wanted the world to be frozen so that he could _think_, but it kept going and he kept falling more and more behind, unable to keep up with all the new rules and emotions and words and _feelings_.

He had never seen someone cry like this and he felt a small sense of relief wash over him when the man brought his hands up to cover his face. There was something powerful about this...display. He felt as insecure and weary as he might have, had he been standing near Voldemort as he struck his wand through the air and made someone _scream_. It wasn't like watching the person screaming, either. No, there was a power here in this crying, even as there was clearly a weakness. He couldn't quite understand it all, how this man could make power and weakness mingle together until they became something so foreign and disturbingly _bewitching_.

He wanted to say something to make the man _stop_ so that _he_ could stop feeling this morbid enchantment in his chest like an ever-tightening strangle hold. He wanted to say something, but as he had no idea _what _would normally be said - if this display was even _normal_ enough to have a standard response at all. He stood there on the bed, towering over the wizard, and the only sound that his brain could direct his mouth to make was a heavy breath of air, cut short as he realized it was coming. The sound people made who couldn't think what to say. Voldemort hated that sound.

_If you can't speak coherently, child, then do not speak to me at all. There is nothing more bothersome than a boy who simply stands there, making sounds that mean nothing. _

Those hands came away and those green eyes swung to his face, searching. He'd practically _invited_ the gaze, with that sound.

"The time has come and gone - why cry?" It was something Voldemort said, well the first part, at least. He said other, nastier things, to illustrate his feeling that mistakes were mistakes and there was no _taking them back_ and therefore _no forgiveness_. If you could fix it, you did that before you _told him_, at least that was what Dubhàn always thought he felt.

_Think before you do __**anything**_**. **_Time is more forgiving for wasted time than wasted effort. _

The man laughed a bit - a dark laugh, even though he thought it was meant to be light. It reminded him of Grandfather, who even when Dubhàn managed to coax laughter out of him in private, it always sounded so rough and sarcastic.

"You're right, you know. I have you here - I shouldn't be wallowing in the past." That had not been what Dubhàn had meant, of course. He hadn't meant to extend any encouragement to the man, real or imagined or otherwise. He didn't say anything to the words, intent to keep the man from another display of crying. "How about some lunch?"

He didn't respond to that either, merely jumped off the bed, over the frames, and onto the floor.

"Is the annoying man gone?" He asked, arching his brow. The man nodded and he lead the way into the hallway. He didn't look back and he didn't slow - if he kept going he wouldn't have to be too near to the man and he might still keep him from crying again.

OoOoOoO

Lunch was simple, at least in his opinion. He moved the well cooked chicken around on his plate, all but ignoring the mix of vegetables and pasta beside it.

"Hi, Zee-Zee," the little girl said softly, as the dog wandered into the kitchen. The dog wagged his tail as if in acknowledgement and then went over to his bowl to eat his own lunch. He watched the dog, finding it far easier than watching the people around him, even if it was probably more boring.

It was while he was watching the dog that he noticed something indescribably _brilliant_. After the dog had eaten it wandered over to the _locked_ and _warded_ back door but instead of the man or the lady getting up to let him through, the little Snitch shape on his collar _glowed_ for a moment and the seemingly solid door shimmered with a hidden flap that the dog pushed past, out into the backyard.

Grandfather was right. There was always _something_ someone forgot.

He averted his eyes, fearing they might have caught him looking, but they carried on their conversation with Emma about her school. He took a bite, trying to look weary but interested.

"Do you want to play with us?" The girl asked after lunch. Her eyes shined a brilliant blue at him and made him pause with remembered affection. Most of him wanted to scowl at her and the childish pack of cards she was holding. He didn't want to do _anything_ with them, he wanted to say, watching as she would shy away. He wanted to make them hate him, because then he'd know...

_Freedom_.

It was but hours away. Hours up in the room, lonely and surrounded by the darkness and _the memory_.

"If you'd like," he said slowly. After all, what harm could it do to let her smile once, _because of him_? She'd never know what he had done for her...it was only fitting he got to see her smile once.

She did - a brilliant little-toothed smile that left his own lips twitching upward, uncaring that his reciprocation had made the man and lady smile too.

_Don't hurt Emma! I promise I won't run away again. _

OoOoOoO

Dinner was loud and filled with the annoying man. The werewolf came as they were sitting down, surprising him.

"Hello," the werewolf said, his kind tame eyes flickering to each of them. He took a seat next to Dubhàn, but Dubhàn tried not to read too much into it, since it was _the only seat left_. Perhaps that illustrated that the man and the werewolf were the only ones brave enough to be near him.

"How have you been, Remus?" The lady asked softly, her gaze a bit more intense than Dubhàn would have expected. He followed her gaze, only to find a small bruise on the werewolf's cheekbone - as if he'd _almost_ missed a punch. It was while he was regarding the man more carefully that he noticed the scent.

_Geoffrey. _

Had they been in a fight? Had Geoffrey been hurt? Had Geoffrey been _stupid enough_ to try and overpower his captors?

The man was a traitor, and he shouldn't care what happened to him - but he did. The pup in him did. The boy in him did. The child who had sought him out in the middle of the night, did. The boy who had seen him _stand between_ him and the Dark Lord, risking his own head for Dubhàn's _comfort_ (because they had both known the Dark Lord would not kill him), cared very much.

_Debts stretch beyond loyalty,_ one Death Eater had told him once. Grandfather hadn't liked the man much, but Grandfather didn't like most people, so he'd learned not to judge people purely on his Grandfather's opinion (which changed far too often for him to keep up with in the first place).

"You've seen Geoffrey," he said, trying to sound casual. He shoved a piece of steak into his mouth, watching for the werewolf's reaction. Tonight he must eat - he couldn't be sure how long he would be running.

"Yes," he said, his tone clipped and hard at the edges.

"He punched you," he added, motioning toward the tiny bruise.

Remus turned to smile disarmingly at Emma, whose eyes had widened at the words.

"I don't think this is something we should discuss at the table," he said, his voice nice and bright and _false_. Dubhàn growled.

"Oh really?" He made his voice just as bright and false. "Alright. Maybe you'd like to hear about me, then," he said, eying them all. "That's all you've been asking about, right? I could tell you something interesting, like what the cutting curse looks like used in a duel...or-"

"Emma, sweetie, come with me for a moment. Devlin and Remus need a bit of privacy."

"Why Mama?" Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but Dubhàn looked away, not to be swayed from his strategy.

"It's a boy thing I think, darling," she said and plucked the little girl out of her chair and left to the living room.

"You've seen Geoffrey," Dubhàn said again, smiling smugly. "And he punched you."

"Not before Remus punched him!" The annoying man said, punching the air and saying a quiet 'go Mooney!' Had the man no decorum? Dubhàn blinked, uncertain of him.

"Sirius!" Remus hissed, clearly having at least an ounce of decorum himself. "Yes, I've seen Geoffrey," Remus continued, looking at him.

"Why did you punch him?" He asked, hard and cold and...preparing to defend the _traitor_...

"He said something that upset me. It was not an appropriate response and I have already apologized."

_Apologized_? He could feel his face showing his confusion before he could control the muscles movements. Once more he was surprised and started and _overwhelmed_ by the difference here as opposed to home. He might not have been able to control his face, but he bit back his words before they too, betrayed him.

"And you - what did you do?" It was directed at the annoying man. Suddenly faced with Dubhàn's regard, he sobered up.

"I peeled him off Remus afterwards, that's all. We wouldn't hurt him intentionally, little man. Harry told us he's important to you."

_Harry told us he's important to you. _

_Important to you. _

_To you. _

They wouldn't hurt him because of _his _opinion? He felt a thrill of power rush through him at the words - at the control. He'd felt this control before, of course. The Death Eater's listened to him about small things at the camp and they all feared upsetting him, but they would never keep someone _safe_ because of him.

"That's right. I don't want you to hurt him at all," he said, firmly. When he had been much younger he had mimicked this tone from his Grandfather, thinking it was this _tone_ that made people do things against their will, only to realize years later it was the Imperius curse instead. Still, the tone had stuck with him and it usually did make people more inclined to consider. "You won't right? Tell the truth!"

There was a deepening frown across the man's face now and a new kind of fear in his eyes at the last of his words. Which was strange, because they usually incited the opposite in Grandfather's eyes, who had _laughed_ the first time he'd made the demand and ruffled his hair and...told the truth.

"We won't," the man said, but there was uncertainty in his eyes that didn't sit well with Dubhàn, who needed this to be _final_. To last even after he had escaped. So he opened his mouth, intent and determined to seal the deal.

"Do you promise, Daddy?" After all, it wasn't that he didn't remember who he was or who they were, or even who they had once been to him, rather that he knew what he had been to them was no longer. He knew it and he wanted to leave before they knew it too. Before they knew he wasn't _their boy_ anymore.

Those green eyes, so full of life and yet the same color as the curse that takes life, widen. The fear was chased away by happiness that somehow seemed foreign in the green pools. His hands were on the table now, his body leaning against them as he leaned forward.

"What did you say?" He asked, breathless and genuine without an ounce of confusion. If he knew he hadn't misheard why would he want to hear it again? Dubhàn felt the edges of his mouth tipping into a frown.

"I asked if you would promise."

His head was bobbing up and down eagerly before the words even escaped his mouth.

"Yes, of course. I promise. I never intended to harm him."

Dubhàn rather doubted that was true, but he didn't much care either. He nodded and then he turned back to his food as if the conversation hadn't come up at all. He had a lot of planning to do.

**Please Review. It only takes a second and means so much more!**


	8. Harry Potter's Realization

**For Slytherin Studio. See, reviews do work magic. ;) **

The Death Eater was waiting for them, when they got back. Ronald was lounging on the sofa, looking like he'd like to be anywhere else (probably in his own bed). The Death Eater was sitting up alert and staring at the fire - waiting for them.

"Geez, why do you have to be there, staring at us?" Sirius asked, growling a bit. Somehow the Death Eater simply unsettled him, no matter what he was doing. The Death Eater had a caustic sort of attitude, even when he was attempting to be polite, and Remus thought it reminded him a bit of Sirius' whole family that had disowned him.

"I am only permitted in two downstairs rooms," the Death Eater said. "Would you rather I have stared at you when you came into the kitchen?"

"You could have been _upstairs,_" Sirius said, taking a step forward and lowering his voice in mock suggestion.

"Very true. Next time, I'll surprise you at the top of the stairs - would that suit you better?"

Sirius growled and the Death Eater smirked and Remus - he just sighed. He felt like he was back at Hogwarts, between Severus and Sirius. At least there was only the two of them.

"You guys alright? Hermione and I haven't seen each other's faces in days." Remus nodded quickly so the boy could get going. When he had gone through the floo, the Death Eater's amber eyes turned to him and narrowed. Remus ignored him and walked past, into the kitchen. Sirius joined him. It was here, about an hour later, that the werewolf found them as well.

"How was the boy?"

"Why do you call him that?" He returned evenly.

"Because you would not appreciate what I would call him, otherwise."

Remus frowned and Sirius grunted - whether in annoyance or agreement Remus couldn't be sure.

"He's fine. He was eating well. He was worried about you."

The werewolf's eyes narrowed to tiny slits.

"It is impolite to lie for someone else," he said, his voice level and certain.

"I wasn't lying. He is fine and he did ask after you."

"What did he say, _exactly_?"

"Well, he got out of us that we had exchanged punches," Remus began, honestly trying to recall Devlin's exact words. "Then I told him it hadn't been the right thing for me-" the Death Eater snorted and shook his head "Yes, that's about how he looked when I said I apologized. After that Sirius said we knew you were important to him and Sirius reassured him that we weren't going to hurt you-"

"How pitiful you must seem to him."

Remus ignored the words.

"and he said "yes, that's right. I don't want you to hurt him at all."

"And then?"

"Well then Harry reassured him. He seemed to relax a lot after that. I think it's really been worrying him, that somehow you're in trouble. He even called Harry 'Daddy' afterwards."

The Death Eater leaned forward more, his forearms resting on his thighs, his wrists wrapped together and his shoulders hunched forward. He laughed and the noise startled Remus and disturbed Sirius, who yelled 'shut up!'

"In what context did the little wolf call Potter Daddy? Was there a promise attached?"

Remus frowned.

"Yes..."

He laughed again.

"I sure hope Potter has everything covered, because the boy doesn't think so."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked, irked enough to have pulled his wand.

"I mean that he's putting all his pixies in a row," the Death Eater said, that same grin on his face. He looked between Remus and Sirius and his face suddenly sobered. "Potter _has_ got everything covered, right? The boy can't escape? Voldemort won't simply welcome him back with open arms." the Death Eater was on his feet now, agitated. "Without me, he'll punish the boy..."

"Are you saying you think Devlin is trying to escape?"

"Haven't you been listening to a word I said?" The Death Eater shouted, beginning to pace. He wrung his hands.

OoOoOoOoO

It had clearly once been a vibrant green, but it was faded and dirty now. The buckle was partially stuck, as if it didn't come off very often and the dog looked quizzically at it in his hand, as if he weren't used to seeing it off his neck.

Dubhàn examined the simple muggle collar on his lap while the dog used his hind leg to scratch his neck with vigor. It was dark outside now, the moon still hardly worth mentioning, and the stars hidden behind a veil of clouds. The room whispered with haunting memories that Dubhàn tried to ignore in favor of the near-freedom held between his fingers.

The annoying man and the werewolf had left at last. The lady and the man had gone to their room. The little girl had stopped telling her toys bedtime stories. He had even managed to find the original clothing he escaped in, tucked in a laundry basket upstairs. He shrugged his cloak so that it fell more firmly around his shoulders, still humming with charms that would protect him from the cold and wet. He wished he had his dragon hide boots, but he hadn't exactly known he would be leaving the camp.

He had already made his plans and even taken the time to draw the whole thing out with those waxy writing utensils found in the desk. The page was tucked in his cloak, by his heart - but he wouldn't need to look at it, he was certain.

So he stood.

"Good dog," he felt compelled to say, as he reached his hands up to his neck and buckled the collar around himself. The dog looked at him oddly and he did his best not to acknowledge the question in the regard. He went to pick up his wand from the bedside table, when he caught sight of the picture of the boy kissing the little girl. On impulse, he undid the frame and tucked the picture inside of his cloak. When he made it past the wards he'd cast a disillusionment charm on the photo so that it would look like plain paper. Now he picked his wand up and began to tuck it between his teeth. Again, the dog gave him an odd look.

"Do you have pockets? No, I didn't think so."

He took another look around the room at the pictures of the boy he could never be, at the toys he couldn't imagine using, at the books that couldn't hold his attention, at the waxy writing sticks that didn't give him the detail he was used too, and at the bedspread with it's childish pattern that Grandfather would have scowled at.

Zee whined softly.

"Don't do that. You're a good dog. I'd take you if I could," he assured. "But here, you can have this," and he pulled out a ham bone that he had nicked from the trash after dinner. The dog took it and Dubhàn was certain he had him fooled, except that as soon as he looked away, the dog dropped the bone and whimpered again.

"Don't make me silence you," he said. "I have to do this."

He bent down, to scratch the dogs muzzle. The dog licked him gently and, knowing he couldn't escape, he cast a silencing charm on the dog. He tucked his wand between his teeth and he crept over to the door as the dog whined noiselessly and ducked out into the hallway. In the hallway he transformed into a pup and crept forward and down the stairs soundlessly.

The kitchen was empty, just as he suspected. He moved toward the door. The collar vibrated on his neck ever so slightly and he very nearly jumped in surprise, but he pushed forward. There was an outline of a door now and he pushed his nose into the surface, excitement building when it gave way under to the movement.

Freedom.

He inhaled through his nose and shook his body so that the cool air snuck between every piece of fur and tingled the skin beneath. He made his way off the landing and down the stairs easily enough and then he was faced with a large backyard. There was fencing, but it was just for show and even as a boy he could simply crawl under it. It would be the wards that kept him in and it was those that were on his mind as he made his way forward, toward the back and to the left a bit. There was a clear meadow beyond that point, flanked on either side by dashes of trees that would make quick cover, if he needed it. The meadow would let him run quickly and get as far as possible.

He slunk, still in wolf form, toward the edge of the yard. When he felt the pre-warning fizzle of the wards, he shrugged the collar off while it would still fit over his head and then transformed.

He reached up to pull the wand out from between his teeth and pointed it at the wards. He could never disengage them entirely, he knew - such was far beyond his ability - but he had invented a spell a couple years ago that _numbed_ the wards in an area and then he could cut through them, without the alarm going off. Grandfather would have been impressed, he was sure, if he had ever told him.

He started the charm.

There was only one problem.

_The sound of a door opening. _

"Devlin!"

Yes, _that_ problem. The dog and the man were racing towards him, the door slamming shut behind their frantic forms. The dog barked soundlessly as it's long legs bounded toward him. The man was wearing the same lounge pants as he had the first night Dubhàn had seen him at the table and a black t-shirt. If Dubhàn had two moments to think he would have thought the man looked very Muggle-ish, but he only had one moment and he used it to spin around and ready his wand for a fight.

The man looked startled for a moment, to see a wand in his hand. The dog stopped farther away and Dubhàn had the suspicion that the man had cast a spell on the animal.

"Thought you'd been holding a defenseless child, hmm?" He asked, snarling and jabbing his wand through the air to illustrate his feelings on the subject. He hated when people underestimated him.

"I didn't think you had a wand," the man said slowly and Dubhàn noted his own wand, pointed neutrally at the ground. "Frankly, Dubhàn I don't consider you the type of boy to be defenseless in any situation, even without a wand."

It was the first time the man had spoken to him as if he weren't the little boy and Dubhàn felt the tiniest bit of his hatred fracture and chip away at the acknowledgement that the words symbolized.

"Come inside," the man continued in earnest, his brow low and knitted together, his non wand hand gesturing gently, his voice full of kindness and his eyes flooded with _love_. Dubhàn felt his chest constrict as that feeling of _knowing_ and _not knowing_ flooded him again. "You don't want to do this, Devlin."

"I'm not Devlin," he said stubbornly, clinging to the one thing he knew how to dispute. "I want to do this."

The man raked a hand through his hair and his shoulders tensed. His eyes were wet now with tears that wouldn't fall.

"It doesn't matter what I call you - you're my son and I don't want to lose you again!"

"I'm not Devlin," he said again, because he _wasn't the boy Potter didn't want to lose_ - he was someone else. He would never be that boy again. He didn't know what to think of that boy. He hardly remembered him. He looked at him in the pictures in the room and could hardly recognize him at all.

Potter shook his head in dismay, readying to say something, when suddenly he looked up. There was realization in his eyes, cold and hard and full of worry.

"You'll always be Devlin," he said, an edge of firmness seeping into his voice. "Always. You'll always be my Devlin."

There was love there again, in those killing curse green eyes.

"You wouldn't say that, if you knew," he said softly, shaking. He was suddenly thankful that he hadn't refused his potion tonight like he had the first night, because he's certain the abyss would have swallowed him now if he hadn't.

"I'll always say it," the man said firmly, taking a step forward. "You'll always be my Devlin."

Another step. Another shimmer of love in those eyes. Another moment that he felt trapped.

"No matter what," the man said said again, a whisper. Those green eyes captivated him, those words an impossible balm to his wounds that _just couldn't be true_. And by the time he had summoned the doubt to break his trance, the man has lunged forward and enclosed him in his arms. His wand was ripped from his grasp physically; a phenomenon that had never happened to him before and made him feel all the more powerless and _childish_.

"Shh, shhh," the man whispered, as he screamed and kicked and clawed at him like a tantruming _child_. Within moments they were back inside the house and even through his wildness he noticed the man charm the dog door shut. _Failure_. He had failed. "It's alright, calm down Devlin," he said softly, the man brushing his cheek against the top of his head. The dog was hiding under the table, it's body tense and uncertain.

Dubhàn fought and clawed and kicked and screamed. There were noises now of rushed feet scrambling down the stairs. The lady was at the door, shouting over his wildness, asking _what had happened_ and he wanted to shout _I failed! I failed!_ except she wasn't really talking to him, so he kept screaming and clawing at the man. They were on the floor, he realized sharply.

"It's alright, Alex," the man shouted, over him. "Go take Emma." And it was with a sharp twinge that he realized the little girl was there, watching him. He fell still suddenly, peering at her little form. Her hair was brought back into a sleep-disheveled braid and she was wearing a blue sleeping gown. Her blue eyes, so full of fear and wariness, reminded him of another pair of blue eyes.

The lady gathered the little girl in her arms and took her away through the floo. Suddenly there were no brilliant blue eyes to regard him with fear and no disheveled red hair to remind him. He could move now. He could breathe again. Except the man was holding him still, whispering words in a comforting tone.

"Oh Merlin, Devlin. Are you really that afraid of me? Did he really make me out to be such a monster? I _love_ you. I don't want to lose you. What were you going to do after you escaped? You can't disapperate and I bet you have no bloody idea _where he is_ anyways." The arms drew around him again and the man breathed into his hair. "Don't do that again. You scared me. I thought I had lost you again."

"You wouldn't care, if you knew," he said again, pushing himself away from the man. Part of him wanted to melt into the embrace, but the other part of him knew better. Soon Grandfather would come for him and it wouldn't do to think this was how things should be, because Grandfather would call this _weakness_ and _foolishness_ and he'd punish him, if he knew.

"You wouldn't say that, if you understood," the man returned, more even toned than Dubhàn had expected. This was not the tone adults used to speak to little boys.

"I don't belong to you," he said, scrambling backwards so that there were at least sixteen inches between them. He would have put more space between them, except that his back collided with the back door.

Confusion flittered across the man's face for a moment, but it was swept away by the sound of footsteps. Dubhàn froze, knowing the lady hadn't come back yet. Fear crept into his belly.

"It's alright," the man reassured and Dubhàn felt his gaze snap to those green eyes, honestly taken aback that the man had _known_ he was afraid.

Beyond the green eyes were two amber eyes, staring at him with something akin to relief and fear.

"Geoffrey," he breathed, lost for a moment as a sharp sense of _knowing_ and _familiarity_ swept over him.

"Hello, pup," Geoffrey whispered. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and his whole face had a sort of greyish hue like unappealing food. "They thought you were such a boy," he said softly. "And you let them."

There was surprise in his voice, even as disapproval seeped in next to it. Dubhàn frowned, trying to work his way through the words meanings.

"You told them."

"You tried to protect me," he said softly and this time it was more surprise and wonder than disapproval. The air felt thick and confining and Dubhàn wasn't sure if he tried to stand that his legs would obey him. He stayed on the ground and so did the man.

The other werewolf was lingering by the kitchen door, watching with his wand out. Their eyes connected for a moment and Dubhàn felt a thrill of recognition from his wolf sweep up his spine.

He didn't answer Geoffrey, because the only words he could honestly say would be traitorous ones.

"You always were such a stubborn boy," Geoffrey said his voice rasp and full of something Dubhàn could not pinpoint.

"I don't belong to them," Dubhàn said, his voice oddly small, his eyes darting to and away from Geoffrey's own gaze. Potter was still sitting there, between Dubhàn and the rest of the kitchen, but Geoffrey crossed the space and stepped across Potter's legs, to reach him.

His hands were warm and reassuring as they lifted him to his feet. Potter's wand had twitched in his grasp and Dubhàn eyed it nervously, afraid that he would hurt Geoffrey, who was pulling him closer. It wasn't a hug - even if Dubhàn might have allowed it normally, Geoffrey knew he wouldn't allow it in front of Potter.

Their faces were mere inches apart. Geoffrey leaned forward, so that his lips were by Dubhàn's left ear.

"This is _where_ you belong," he said softly. Before Dubhàn could protest, he opened his mouth again. "Perhaps you belong to _him_," he said his voice a bare wash of air - a secret just between them - "but this is _where_ you belong."

Dubhàn frowned, rolling the concept around in his mind. Was it possible to belong to a person and a place, all at once? The idea was thrilling in an unexpected way, like a rush of freedom, but it was also scary. He shut his eyes and took a breath and wished he hadn't heard the words at all. It was dangerous, just having them in his head. Voldemort always knew things he shouldn't be able to know - things Dubhàn hadn't told him. Dubhàn was almost certain he even knew his deepest darkest secrets. It was only a sliver of remaining hope that kept him protecting them at all.

"If you've got something to say to him, say it loud enough for me to hear," Potter said suddenly, his voice nervous and his shoulders tense. Geoffrey ignored him, pulling back to look Dubhàn in the eye.

"I had to protect you, Dubhàn. I had to let him have you. I knew...if the Dark Lord knew of my capture, he wouldn't trust me with you anymore. You had to be protected and I knew the protection couldn't come from me."

Potter fell oddly still beside them and the wand in his hand went a little limp.

"Perhaps they will let me see you again, Dubhàn," Geoffrey whispered. He started to turn around.

"They think I am the boy still," Dubhàn cried out as Geoffrey's hand slipped away from his shoulder. _Leaving him. _He wanted the hand back on his shoulder - wanted to feel something familiar grounding him to reality even if he shouldn't want a traitor near him at all.

Geoffrey turned around slowly, his brow furrowing and his lips flattening. He spared the man a look and shook his head, as if in reprimand.

"Why does that concern you?" He asked and Dubhàn huffed in frustration. Geoffrey stepped forward again and, turning to the man asked: "Is Dubhàn allowed to speak quietly, at least?"

The man nodded stiffly after a moment of thought. Geoffrey crouched, so that Dubhàn could lean forward and whisper in his ear.

"They will hate me, Geoffrey. They will _kill_ me. Don't you see? They think I am that little boy. They think I am like them. They think I am _light_ but I am _dark_ and the blond man...he told me what Potter does to dark wizards..."

Geoffrey growled, so loud and fierce that the annoying man who must have been waiting in the hallway came into the kitchen with his wand held high.

"You are such a foolish pup," he said bitingly, but Dubhàn knew the bite wasn't for him.

Dubhàn reached forward, pulling Geoffrey close to him again. He felt weariness creep into his eyes and tried to convince himself it wasn't fear.

_Fear is for lesser beings than you and I. _

He whispered his next words so quietly that he might have only said them in his mind, except that his jaw was moving.

"He doesn't want me to be that boy, Geoffrey. If he thought..."

There was sadness and sympathy in the werewolf's eyes - emotions that they usually reserved for when it was only them.

"You're afraid," the werwolf said, just as quietly to him.

"What did I say about whispering?" The man said, although there wasn't very much firmness to the reprimand this time.

"No I'm not!" He shouted, offended and embarrassed. "Fear is for lesser beings than I!" He said firmly, folding his arms across his chest and looking away.

Unfortunately that put his gaze right on Potter. The killing curse eyes looked as if they had finally surrendered to the curse they resembled. There was a hard blankness to them that disturbed Dubhàn, who had only seen them full of life and determination. If this was what the eyes would look like, if the man knew...well he didn't want him to know - _ever_.

"Can't you see, pup?" Geoffrey was saying softly, but audible enough that the man could hear too. Dubhàn looked back at him cautiously. "Can't you see how safe you are here? Look at him," the werewolf continued, pointing to Potter. Potter's eyes widened in his surprise. The life was back in his eyes and Dubhàn felt as if he could breathe once more. "Can't you see that damn love in his eyes? It traps you, child. Makes you forgive unforgivable things. Makes you hold someone close while they bite and kick and hurt you! You could confess _anything_ to him and it wouldn't change."

Hurt and dread and tormenting anticipation sprung to life in those green eyes and they died a little bit again in the presence of such things. Once more Dubhàn felt his breath cling to the inside of his lungs, unable to move. Somehow it felt like the whole world might stop, if those eyes ceased to be alive.

He moved his gaze away from Potter and to Geoffrey. He hadn't anything to say - or at least nothing he felt he _could _say. If Voldemort learned this secret Dubhàn wouldn't be the one to have said anything positive. His presence and his lack of fight would be enough of a condemnation.

"Do you think I hate you?" Potter asked suddenly, licking his lips and looking at him with something akin to terror and dread and _hurt_. Except Dubhàn had seen all of those things in mens eyes before and they weren't like Potter's eyes now - somehow each was different than what Dubhàn had thought they were _supposed to be_. It wasn't like the terror that filled a screaming mans face. It wasn't like the dread that came when Voldemort aimed his wand. It wasn't like the _hurt_ that filled their eyes while they begged. It was different and Dubhàn couldn't understand it because he had never seen it before. The foreignness disturbed him as much as the sight of it in Potter's eyes.

Most of him hated the man already.

_It will be alright, Devlin. _**Nothing was every alright. **

The left over bits and pieces of him wanted the man to understand and it was those long-ago broken shards that kept his eyes glued to the mans, willing him to understand that he _couldn't_ answer the question. Voldemort would know and his mere presence was damnation enough.

He could almost hear the soft purr of Voldemort's words by his ear as he circled him. _You believe yourself intelligent enough to fool me? I can see it all in your head. You __**wanted**__to be there. _

His silence was flaying the man's nerves and all those emotions in his eyes looked more and more raw by the second.

"I could never hate you," the man said finally, as if Dubhàn had given him an answer. He didn't like it when people put words in his mouth.

"You don't know me enough to hate me," he said cryptically, even though he had told himself he wouldn't answer. Anger swelled inside of his chest and propelled the words past his tongue and out through his tightening jaw. "I'm just a ghost to you - a ghost of something you couldn't hate. You could hate me, I promise."

There was terror in Geoffrey's eyes. The werewolf had doubts about his claims - he wanted the man to like Dubhàn - wanted the man to _protect him_. Dubhàn was screwing up his plans, but Dubhàn didn't care, because the anger and _feelings_ were swelling disproportionately inside of him and overtaking his logic.

The man shook his head, like he had the other day with the picture frames.

"I could never hate you."

"I don't believe you," he said firmly, his eyes narrowed and his voice a loud whisper.

"Why?" It was such a simple word and it left so much room for abuse. Dubhàn could answer it however he wanted. He took a step forward, his eyes gleaming at the opening.

"Because I can hate you. I don't see why you can't hate me." He waited for the _hurt_ to explode in those eyes, because it was there already large and painful, but it didn't grow. The man rose to his feet unsteadily. He was taller than Dubhàn now.

"It's different," he said softly, but with a firmness Dubhàn hadn't expected to be there. "You're the child, not the parent. When you love a child, you can never completely hate them again."

Love. He snarled at the word and it's presence in the man's eyes.

"But you _can_ hate me!" He shouted, because he'd heard it clearly enough from the man. Hate was hate whether it was 'complete' or partial.

"Not for anything about Voldemort," the man said sharply and there was a gleam of _knowing _in his eyes that made Dubhàn take a step backwards.

"I'm not yours," he said softly, feeling his defenses crumbling around him.

"No, you're not," the man said, just as softly. He took a step closer. "You don't belong to anyone but yourself."

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!_

"You're a fool if you think that," he said instead and he raced past the man and Geoffrey. He pushed past the annoying man, who might have grabbed him, except that the man had said 'Let him be'. Now he was in the hallway, his breath coming raggedly as he leaned against the wall.

"He's not used to this," the man was saying in the kitchen. Dubhàn squeezed his eyes closed and tried to calm his blaring headache. "Obviously he's having a problem adjusting - that's normal, right?"

_Huh, hhhuh, huuh_.

The dog was there, pushing it's head against his lank palm, begging for his attention. He found himself petting it's head absent-mindedly. He opened his eyes and Zee licked his finger tips, slurping them into his mouth like a pup. It was then that he realized he was not alone in the hallway. Across the way was a man, his deep black eyes observing him silently. He was dressed in black robes, buttoned all the way to his chin. He smelled of herbs and spices and minced potion ingredients and he was holding a wand, twirling it through his lanky fingers in a manner that reminded Dubhàn of his grandfather.

There was knowledge and power in those endless black eyes and Dubhàn felt himself still - as if he were stood before a Death Eater.

"He's calling you a fool," the man said in a whisper. Somehow even his whisper was fierce.

"I'm not a fool," he said stubbornly. "Does the man know you're here?"

"Would you tell him, if he didn't?" He asked, smiling cynically. Dubhàn felt his heart quicken.

"Are you here to rescue me?"

The scowl on the man's face deepened.

"No," he said. "You've already been rescued. Neither am I here to kidnap you."

"Then the man probably already knows you are here," he said softly.

"Quite probable," the black-eyed man said. "Just as he is probably right that you are like him: a fool who simply survived Voldemort by mere luck."

"He didn't say that," Dubhàn seethed, his voice a deadly whisper. The man smirked in bemusement, the way adults look when they are merely humoring a child's misbeliefs.

"You're right. He insinuated that you are a complete fool and you managed to survive the Dark Lord simply by luck. Otherwise, you would easily be able to adapt to a new set of standards, just like someone who had survived because of skill instead of luck..."

"I'm no fool!" He said, his voice rising just slightly, his fists clenching. Zee nudged him with his wet nose, but Dubhàn hardly noticed.

"Your...display...certainly leads me to believe the opposite."

"Who are you to know anything about what a fool looks like?"

The dark-eyed man swept forward, his hooked nose nearly touching his own nose, his lank greasy hair that smelled of potion vapor fumes brushing by his cheek.

"I am Severus Snape, Mr. Devlin Potter and I know more than you about what a fool looks like."

Dubhàn felt a thrill pass through him. Severus Snape - renowned Potion Master! But this man was equally a traitor. Grandfather had told him some about this man - books had told him the rest.

"And a traitor?" He asked, his voice falsely sweet. He dare not flinch or draw in too much air. He wouldn't have the man thinking him _scared_. "I could act like they want, but why _bother_?"

It was then that Potter heard them in the hallway and came out, flicking his wand and turning on the lights. Now Dubhàn could see the man properly, and the man could see him. Something in the man's face _flinched_ and he drew back hurriedly. Dubhàn wondered what was so spooky about his face.

"Severus, I see you met Dubhàn."

"Excuse me, but I thought you had named him Devlin," the Potion Master said, with a sneer on his face that clearly said he _knew_ what Potter had named him.

"Yes well, he goes by both right now, I suppose." Potter said, obviously a tad uncomfortable. "You were taking over with Geoffrey, right? He's ready to go."

The obsidian eyes flickered to Potter's green and seemed lost in the green gaze for a split second before coming back to Dubhàn.

"I shall see you the day after tomorrow, Devlin Potter," he said with distaste. "Potter tells me you need a potion brewed."

"I don't need any such thing," Dubhàn said. "And it _is_ Dubhàn."

"Your father may choose to give into your every whim, but I simply don't care." He scowled deeply. "I also don't care if you _want_ me to brew this potion," he added caustically.

"Well that will be a problem won't it, since you'll need me to tell you how to brew it in the first place," he said, just as caustically.

Severus Snape laughed and it was such an odd sound. He swooped forward again and tapped Dubhàn's head with one long lanky finger. His palms smelled of oils, metals, and aged wood, with a dash of cleaning solution. Dubhàn's nose wrinkled without his permission.

"I can see these things, just like _him_," he smirked at the fear in Dubhàn's eyes and then rose up to his full height, adjusting his robes. Geoffrey eyed him as he was led into the living room and Dubhàn knew he was waiting for a good-bye, but Dubhàn couldn't give it to him - couldn't make himself say the words. Snape strode to the floo, putting his hand on Geoffrey's forearm and propelling them both through the flames.

Now it was the man and him, alone in the hallway.

Potter stared at him for a moment in the bright magical lighting that lined the hallway. He was still dressed in his night clothes and Dubhàn was still in his wizarding robes, a stark contrast that even he seemed to pick up on.

"What are you looking at?" Dubhàn asked, still feeling childish.

"How handsome you've become," Potter said. "How much you have grown and how much you have stayed the same, despite all the differences."

"I've already told you I'm not that boy anymore," he sneered.

"Children never stay the same. Once you were barely the size of my arm," he said, fondness glowing in his eyes as he held his forearm against his body. "But then you changed. Everyone changes, but they're still the same."

Dubhàn turned away from the man, intent to avoid the love in those killing curse eyes.

"You mum will be home soon," he said softly, leaning against the opposite wall. His body was lean and strong and Dubhàn was especially aware of his physical power, now that Dubhàn had felt those arms around him, _stopping _him. It made Dubhàn especially aware of his own size. He wasn't often conscious of being a child, but times like this made him aware of the weakness.

He flexed his hands, determined to show Potter what he was made of, if the man ever tried to stop him like that again. He'd been distracted and caught off guard, and that wouldn't happen again.

"Do you want some hot cocoa?"

"No." Potter shrugged easily, as if he had no trouble letting the anger and hatred in Dubhàn's voice roll off his shoulders. Dubhàn frowned - if it was one thing he had come to count on with the man in the extremely short time he had known him, it was that the man always had an emotional reaction.

"Do you want your wand back?"

Devlin's eyes snapped up to meet Harry's green gaze and once more Harry was faced with the boy that _wasn't the same_. Alexandra had been trying to tell him Devlin wasn't that little boy anymore and Harry hadn't been able to _listen_, but now he knew. Now he could see what was standing right before him.

Alexandra could take someones words (the tone, the pacing, the flow), their minute facial expressions (an ached brow, a crumbled frown, thin lips, crinkled nose), and the whole situation and come away with a well-founded theory about what they were _feeling_ and _thinking_. She was usually right, too. Harry, on the other hand, made all his judgements on _actions_.

He'd been ignoring all of Devlin's actions, but tonight it had been impossible not to see him for what he was: a different boy. Devlin had grown and changed and experienced things. It hadn't been that the boy had tried to escape, because they had prepared for that (or so they thought). Rather it had been that, when the boy had heard him he hadn't tensed with fear or tried to run further - his first course of action had been to _fight_. He had spun his body around and sneered - his lips tight and and his nose flared - and he had assumed a _dueling_ positionthat was far from childish. Harry had felt the magic, deep and tense and _active_. He had felt the sheer _strength_ of the boy as he had held him, thrashing, in his arms. He'd have the bruises to prove it, tomorrow.

The boys words, shouted so loudly they might have just been incoherent screams, still rang in his ears. _Don't touch me! _

They weren't words that his Devlin hadn't known how to scream with such desperation.

Later that night, Alexandra will lay with him in bed and Harry will confess his epiphany. He could imagine what Alexandra would say, in her soothing voice, 'no, you saw it all along Harry - you finally _accepted_ it' and she would kiss him lightly on the space between his shoulders and neck.

"I asked if you wanted your wand back," he reminded gently. Those intense eyes were still regarding him, guarded and endless.

"I heard you. You're taunting me."

"I'd never taunt you," he said softly, a little hurt despite his resolution to be unaffected by Devlin's attitude.

"You would give me my wand back?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Harry felt a rush of joy at the word, reminded the tiniest bit of his _little_ boy, following him around the house, asking it endlessly.

"Because I don't want you to worry," he said, trying not to sound _too_ loving.

"I could hurt you with it," he said, casually.

"I know, but I don't think you will."

"I was going to, back there!" He said loudly, offended.

Harry took a step forward, leaning down to the boys level.

"You're not a prisoner here," he said. "You don't belong to me - I'm just keeping you safe." He rose to his feet, seeing the discomfort in the boys eyes. "Besides, I saw your stance and I bet you're trained. I bet you can _defend_ yourself with it and I won't deny you that."

"I'll try to escape again."

"No you won't. Now I know how clever you are - and you know I know."

"Well then, are you going to give it to me?" He held his hand out, although he couldn't be sure if his wand had even made it inside again.

"At the end of the week. That'll give me a few days to check it for spells."

Dubhàn pulled his lips back in a sneer.

"I don't believe you."

"You will."

It was then that the floo flared to life and Alexandra and Emma came tumbling through. The little girl wobbled on her feet, obviously just awoken. The lady looked more frazzled than Dubhàn remembered. The little girl clung to the lady's robes as her blue eyes caught sight of him - _afraid_.

She was standing there in her blue night gown, her blue eyes shimmering with worry, her red hair disheveled in it's braid. He spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs before he could think anymore about her. Zee followed in his wake.

In the room, Dubhàn locked the door with the most blatant locking charm he could. Now the dog wanted the bone that he had tried to bribe it with earlier.

"Stupid mutt," he said before he transformed. As a pup he was just as eager for the bone and it was about an hour later that Zee had had _enough. _He snarled in warning at the little puppy, who growled right back, before becoming a boy. Zee immediately whined, as if in apology and when Dubhàn laid down, the dog came toward him, laying against his side. Obviously this boy was no danger to his bone. Dubhàn ran his hand through the dogs coat, trying to calm himself as he drifted off to sleep. Sleep finally did take him, except that Dubhàn had forgotten that human minds dream so vividly and of such terrible things. He tossed and turned amidst the nightmare playing out in his mind.

_Snap. _

_The sound of Apparition; a sound that shouldn't be heard in the middle of the compound. All eyes turn to the sound and he can hear their hearts, beating erratically with fear. They wait for the wards to crumble. For Aurors to appear. Geoffrey holds him against his body, closer than he has dared before so openly. But the wards do not shatter and instead of Auror's it is only a couple Death Eater's. There is a collective sigh of relief that he does not feel. Geoffrey lets go of his shoulder, but his regard is stuck on the two men, and what they have brought._

_His eyes are transfixed. Blue summer dress. Red hair falling into a pale freckled face. Brilliant blue eyes red and puffy from crying. He can't move. He remembers Geoffrey picking him up and carrying him away. He remembers trying to fight his way back. He remembers her screams, her pleas, and her fear. _


	9. Nightmares and Mind Games

He was screaming.

His nails were digging into something soft and flesh-like. He threw himself against the restraints he could feel wrapped around his torso, but they only tightened.

Words, half-distorted and hard to hear, reached his ears. '_Alex', 'having', 'calm', 'swallow'. _He felt the coolness of glass brush by his lips, but he pushed his lips together and threw himself at the restraints again. Liquid spilled over his front, only to vanish a second later.

There was a feverishness to his thoughts. Reality bore down upon his senses, but his nightmare-riddled brain refused to comply with reality's demands. He thrashed again.

_They're keeping him. He has something to do. Something that __**has**_ _to be done. _He opened his mouth to beg with them, but then thought better - no one should know. No one should know about his plan. _Don't think, don't think, don't think. _

Something cool filled his mouth and he struggled to spit it out, only to find that his nose was plugged and his jaw pushed closed. He thrashed around, finding his torso more free than before, but the restraints around his head unyielding. Against his will, his body swallowed. The coolness spread into his stomach and into his veins and into his mind. The coolness swept over the image of the blue summer dress until he slumped back against the restraints, defeated. The words weren't so hard to understand, now.

"Dubhán, it's okay. I gave you a calming draught. You had a nightmare. It's okay." There were hands carding through his hair. A heartbeat behind his own. The words kept coming, like endless waves lapping at the shore. He'd seen the ocean once, with grandfather. "It's over now. It can't hurt you. It's okay. Everything is okay. We're here. Da- Harry and Alex are here. We'll make sure everything is alright."

Nothing was ever alright! He fought against the coolness and tried to free himself again, except those arms were back around his torso, holding him there and the strength he was used to in his own limbs was gone.

"Hey, hey, calm down. You're on the floor, be careful."

He became aware suddenly of the knock on his head and the ache on his side. He let his eyes open. It was still dim in the room, the only light the magical one above the bed. The lady was off to the side, kneeling. Her blue eyes were _worried_ and he felt a pang of _something_ in his chest that he had made those eyes _show_ him their feelings. Zee was in front of him, laying on the bed with his head off the edge, staring. The man was behind him, his legs stretched out, holding him against his chest. If Dubhán kept his gaze ahead, he could see the man's feet on either side of his own.

"I put a locking charm up," he said, feeling the pain in his throat but pushing to finish his...complaint. Was he upset? When was he ever used to privacy? When did he even begin to imagine he could _trust them_ to stay out? The coolness was making it hard to be so completely angry.

"We know," the lady said, "it took me a moment to dislodge it before we could come in. Zee woke us up." She motioned to the door, where the white-washed wood surface was scarred with scratch marks. The drywall next to the door was half-chewed, half scratched.

"We heard you screaming," the man cut in. As if Dubhán needed a reminder of his weakness! He tried to push himself away from the man. The man held tighter to him. When Dubhán tried to pry the mans fingers apart, he saw for the first time that he wasn't not the _only_ injured one. Up and down the man's arms were _scratch_ marks.

"I could have bitten you," he found himself saying, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He touched one of the marks with a finger, brushing across the raised skin. _He had done this_.

"You could have, that's true. At worst I would prefer my meat more rare."

He frowned, still trancing the marks. _His_.

It reminded him of when he had been _little _and upset Grandfather. He'd had a mark after that incident and had run his thumb over it for days until it disappeared.

He frowned up at the man. His Grandfather would have simply cast an _Ennervate_ and handed him a Dreamless Sleep potion, if he had bothered to do that. Most of the time Dubhán's only evidence that he'd had a nightmare was the dissipation of a silencing charm when he opened his door. Here was Harry Potter, perhaps not as powerful as his Grandfather, but certainly not weak, willing to be bitten by him, just to sooth his nightmares. It was almost too much for Dubhán to acknowledge.

"It'll be okay," the man said, peering over Dubhán's shoulder to look at the marks too. "I was more worried about you. What were you dreaming about?"

Dubhán drew his hand away from the marks on the man's arms and looked away, his gaze falling on the lady, who was lingering by the door now, looking nervously out into the hallway.

"I won't tell you," he said firmly.

He felt the man's heartbeat quicken painfully behind him. Normally he would have been furious at just the inkling that they thought they could _make him tell_, but the coolness was making it harder to pull that fury forward. It was strange and frightening all at once. Perhaps this was why Grandfather had never given him a calming draught before - he imagined he was hardly worth bothering with, right now. Certainly he didn't feel that he could have entered into an intricate conversation where words were like spells in a duel, or cast any magic with the coherency with which he was familiar.

"I wish you would. I want to help you...but you don't have too. I can respect that," the man said and he thought the man was mostly talking to himself. "I want to make everything better, Devlin," the man said and at last he felt he was talking to _him_.

But nothing was ever going to be better, because Grandfather was going to figure out a way to get him back, and then it would be silencing charms and _Ennervate _and the disgusting taste of Dreamless Sleep. He licked his lips, slowly realizing that they tasted like cherries.

"My lips taste like cherries," he said, even though he had meant to ask what damn potion they had given him. Apparently a calming draught also made him point out the obvious.

"Yeah, Emma refuses to drink calming draughts after a nightmare because they're _yucky_, so I bribe Severus to make me _yummy_ tasting ones." He must have had a questioning look on his face, because the man continued. "As a Potion Master even he can't resist a trade for rare snake venom."

"You have snakes?" He asked curiously. Potter frowned slightly, as if in hesitation, but then he dipped his head in answer.

"Yes."

He ran his thumb over the scratch marks again, noting that they were already flattening.

"Grandfather says you can speak to snakes," he said quietly, trying not to look at anything but what he has managed to do - the scratch marks - the one link to his _strength_ in this whole new world as well as his most recent indication of failure.

_There is no such thing as success and failure all at once. If failure is present at all, then success cannot be counted. _

"Yeah, I can," Potter said, a weariness to his voice - as if he were accusing him of something. He kept his eyes trained on the fading marks. "Can you?" There was hope there that he couldn't understand coming from Potter. Why would he care if he could speak to snakes? Suddenly he wished he hadn't brought the topic up at all, because he hated the only answer, which was really a non-answer, that he could give.

"I don't know." Without the calming draught he didn't think he would have let the words slip out, but now he can't stop them. "I don't think Grandfather thinks I can. He doesn't allow me near snakes - especially not Nagini."

"But he doesn't know for sure?" It was the first time the man had spoken about Grandfather so casually and it made him frown uncomfortably in a way he hadn't expected. Grandfather and Potter simply weren't supposed to mix nicely, not even in a conversation.

"It'd be so disappointing if I couldn't," he said slowly, thinking aloud, catching himself just before he allowed the next words to spill past his tongue _it would make me less like him and then what would I be worth?_

He decided he hated calming draughts.

The man didn't comment. The lady looked at him so intensely that he could _feel_ her gaze without having to check. The man breathed _in _and _out_ slow and rhythmically, like someone trying to control themselves and he felt himself go a bit tense in the the man's hold. Immediately the man _stopped_ as if he had _known_ why he had tensed up.

"Think you can go back to sleep?"

He nodded, feeling a bit eager for them to leave, since sleep was about the only thing he felt he could accomplish with this potion in his system. Potter lifted him and despite how weak and pitiful it made him feel, he allowed it, because his legs simply would not obey with the accuracy which he expected.

"Will you be okay?" Potter asked, looking nervous. "I can sit here if you like."

"Don't be absurd," he said, managing the sneer but not the right tone, "I take care of myself. I didn't need you in the first place."

"I know," the man said, surprising him. "But it was nice that you let me be here."

"What choice did I have?" He asked, but it was lacking the venom he wished it had. He turned a bit so that his head was facing the wall and not _him. _

"Maybe we should just wait until he falls asleep, Alex. We don't know how he'll react to the potion. There are people who get sick on it."

Alex came away from the hallway and came over to him. There was an air of gentleness to her that he hadn't seen before and somehow preferred and despised all at once. She hovered over him at the side of the bed for a moment, withdrawing her wand.

"I'll put a tracking charm on him," she said reassuringly, to the man.

"But-"

"Oh, shush Harry. I know medical variations. It will tell us if there is anything wrong. I'm sure we'll just disturb him if we hang around."

Not only that, but he wouldn't sleep. He strained to keep his eyes open while his head sunk into the pillows, determined not to fall asleep before they were gone.

There was a warm sensation around his wrist and he saw the glow of something out of the corner of his vision. He lifted his arm with great effort to see the glowing bracelet on his wrist.

"Keep that on. I'll know if you don't." He shrugged, because he didn't care to follow her rules. He'd take it off when they left. "If you take it off," she continued, her voice soft and kind in a way that made him shiver with dreaded anticipation. Some part of him remembered this tone. "I'll make Harry come back and _sit_ with you _all night_ instead."

"Keep it - promise," he said, unable to focus his eyes anymore let alone his mind. He heard the lady laugh and the man say something in return in an indignant voice. The door closed behind them. He closed his eyes. Sleep took him.

He fell asleep thinking of the man's scratch mark and his dreams led him to the memory the marks had originally made him recall. He dreamed of Grandfather and himself, when he had been little. And even though it wasn't a pleasant dream, he didn't scream - he never scream around Voldemort, even in a dream.

"_See this?" There was a knife in his hands – Devlin knew what it was. But it didn't glint like metal – it was covered in something green. _

"_A knife?" _

"_A covered knife," his grandfather stressed, bringing it closer to Devlin – who demanded his body to stay still despite the fear roiling in his gut. Perhaps he had gone too far this time. What had he done? He could hardly remember, his eyes tracking the knife's slightest movement. Suddenly his grandfather reached forward and grabbed his hand, bringing it toward the knife. Devlin bit his tongue, full of fear that knew he shouldn't show. _

_Soft. _

_He dared to look. His finger was on the tip of the knife-edge, but it didn't hurt, because there was something soft between him and the glinting metal he knew lay beneath. _

"_This is velvet. It is soft, yes?" He nodded, afraid to use his voice. "This is where you are right now – on the edges of my nerves." He plucked Devlin's hand away – away from the softness, and drove the knife through the green fabric. Now Devlin could see the metal, glittering dangerously at him. _

_He grabbed for Devlin's hand again and this time, when his finger touched the edge of the blade, it hurt. There was no velvet between him and the blade, now. He pulled back his arm and immediately stuck the finger into his mouth. _

"_Don't push me, child. I am like that knife. I afford you a bit of comfort, but if you push me, I hurt you." _

When he woke up the next morning he realized he was still dressed in his clothing. He smoothed down the wrinkled fabric, since the only other thing he had to change into were pajama's and he despised them. Last night niggled at the back of his mind, but it wasn't until he turned toward the door and saw the claw marks that the night rushed upon him.

He sunk to his knees momentarily, right where he had been last night, in the man's arms. He felt overwhelmed and scared. He wanted Geoffrey to be here, telling him quietly to stop _thinking_.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think!_

"Devlin?" There was a knock on his door. He couldn't bring himself to demand whoever was there to _sod off_ and eventually the door peeked open. It was the man and he frowned at Dubhán.

_Weakness_.

He must look so pitiful, on the floor like some scared _child. _

"Hey," the man said, pushing his head in a little bit more, his feet remaining in the hallway. "Your mum took Emma to Molly's house. She has to go into work for a couple hours but...I thought we could go shopping for some new clothes for you."

"I don't have any to wear," he said quietly, motioning to his horribly wrinkled ones. He didn't have a wand to fix them either, although he supposed the man could.

"I got that covered!" Potter said, his voice full of pride in himself. He stepped in a bit more and threw a set of clothes at him. They were basic pants in a rough thick blue material and a shirt in red. He'd never seen anything quite like the ensemble. At home he had only button down shirts and slacks, if he weren't wearing robes.

"What is this?" He asked, turning them over in his hands.

"Jeans and a t-shirt," Potter answered, smiling still. "Go ahead, get them on and meet me downstairs."

He nodded. Even though he would rather be anywhere but out shopping with the man, it was yet another chance at _escape _and it was being handed to him on a silver platter. So he got dressed in the rough blue pants that _snapped_ closed and he pulled the 't-shirt' over his head. Then he looked in the mirror. He looked strange, although he couldn't pinpoint what was so different. Pulling the t-shirt over his head had caused his hair to ruffle and he looked at his reflection in surprise for a moment. Hung next to the mirror was a picture of the boy and the man and Dubhán stared at it for a long time, marveling how a little mussed hair could make him look so much more like Potter. He shook his head and the strands fell back into place.

Potter was sipping coffee at the table reading a pile of paper a good inch thick. When he saw Dubhán, he vanished the papers immediately.

"Hey look at you!" Potter said, smiling - somehow Dubhán knew it was a genuine smile, although it never seemed to quite reach his eyes.

"Where are we going?"

"To Diagon Alley, of course," he said. Dubhán frowned, itching to point out the man's stupidity but knowing it was in his best interests to let the man fail (and him escape). "Ever been there before?"

"Yes," he said, although he suspected Geoffrey had already told the man as much.

"We're just waiting for a friend of mine," Harry said. So the man had planned, a bit. A moment later the floo flared to life and lit the hallway green. Dubhán tensed for just a moment at the color, but the man had noticed and his brilliant green eyes were darker when Dubhán turned around.

A red-headed man came into the kitchen, followed by a lady.

"Hey Harry," the man said, smiling. "It sure is good to see you. And get out!"

The lady turned to him first, smiling with a wispy sort of fondness that made him sure she was seeing him as the little boy.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," he replied the words coming automatically. He always felt a bit more shy around women, perhaps because he didn't see them very often. Bella, he thought, hardly counted.

"Ready?" Harry asked, standing up. "Wait, is it cold outside?"

"Not really."

"You've got jackets on..."

"Well it's a bit nippy out."

The man's face fell at the lady's words.

"I forgot to get a jacket for you, Devlin!"

"I do have my cloak..." He said, not eager to have the man cancel his one chance to redeem himself over a _jacket_. The man nodded.

"Yeah, why don't you go toss it on, alright?" He nodded and scampered up the stairs. When he came back down wearing it, Hermione's eyes went a bit wide.

"That's a _very_ nice cloak," she said softly.

Harry frowned uncomfortably and shrugged.

Dubhán waited for someone to make a move and when the first move was the man pulling out his wand, he tensed. The wand was aimed at _him. _

"I have to put some wards on you," Potter said kindly.

"I thought you trusted me," he sneered.

"No, I said you wouldn't try to escape because now you knew I knew how clever you are," Potter clarified, trying to smile in a redeeming way. "So, just a couple spells, huh?"

"What if I say no?"

"Geoffrey told me to bribe you with the bookshop and point out at least you'll have something to read without losing your mind here from boredom." The man had a point - or rather Geoffrey did - and begrudgingly Dubhán approached the man. Besides, who was to say the mans spells would be flawless? Dubhán might be able to pick them apart slowly during the trip.

It felt like he was covered in slime for a moment, then as if it had been charmed off of him with a harsh cleaning spell - he rubbed at his arms under the cloak.

"Now may we go?" He asked and the man laughed softly but nodded.

"You always were impatient," he said fondly and Dubhán glared at the reminder that the man knew him even the tiniest bit - that they had once meant something to each other. That they still might.

Potter lead them to the front door. Dubhán had never seen the front yard - with a stone walkway leading to the curb, green grass on either side with flowers planted against the house. They walked past the wards, Potter holding onto him in what Dubhán felt must have been a passkey to the wards to allow Dubhán exit. They fizzled around him and he felt his heart beat quickly in his chest at even the possibility that he might escape today.

"I know you've Disapperated before," Potter said to him. "But I'm just giving you a warning." And that was all the warning Dubhán got before the man had gripped his body and brought it against his own. _Pop_.

They were standing outside of a shop called The Leaky Cauldron. Dubhán stared at it for a long moment as they waited for the man and the lady. Ron and Hermione, he recalled and then he sneered at himself.

"What's this supposed to be?" He asked, motioning to the building.

"The Leaky Cauldron, of course. Haven't you been?"

"No. We usually start in Knockturn Alley." The words made Potter frown deeply.

"Yes, well. Stay close, alright?" There was a weariness to his voice that Dubhán didn't understand until Ron and Hermione had arrived and they had headed into the pub.

Every head turned.

Dubhán felt as if he'd just entered a Death Eater meeting by Grandfather's side.

Every eye was on Potter, but then they shifted within moments to _him_.

Potter was looking at him sympathetically, as if he felt like he couldn't _handle_ this.

"Sorry, I hate crowds too," Potter whispered. Dubhán straightened beside him, squaring his shoulders and looking around him with an air of indifference.

"This bothers you?" He asked in the same whisper, smirking. "Whatever for?"

Potter frowned thoughtfully down at him and Dubhán knew he had just given the man something to think about. He tried to ignore that if he didn't escape, Potter would probably question him about it.

Despite all the regards, everyone seemed to know to keep their distance from Potter, which left Dubhán free to observe them all - looking around for possible rescuers. He noted that each adult around him (and they _were _surrounding him protectively), had their wands half disengaged from their holsters, slight curve to their wrists the only thing keeping the wand mostly up their sleeves. So they weren't _complete _idiots.

"Lets go order the robes first," Potter said. They entered the small store.

"Hello Mr. Potter," a young lady said, her voice casual despite the importance of her visitor. "Is this the young man you called ahead about?"

Dubhán noted that they were the _only_ customers in the whole place and that when he looked back, Hermione was placing a spell on the door. So Potter had reserved the shop. How clever.

"Yes, Samantha, this is him. I need some robes for him. I'm not sure what kids his age - nine - usually have in their wardrobe but I need the lot of it."

"That's alright, Mr. Potter. Mrs. Potter called ahead and gave me the order." She smiled kindly at him in a bemused sort of way. "I just need to measure the young man and then I'll let him pick out some of the colors."

Dubhán didn't much care about the colors. He didn't intend to ever wear the robes, so what did their colors matter? But he stood on the stool for her and allowed her to measure him.

"This might take a moment, but please try to stay very still," she said to him as she pulled out the charmed tape measure.

"Of course," he said, pulling off his cloak and handing it to Potter to hold. He held out his arms enough so that the measuring tape would be able to measure his arms as well.

"You've done this before," the lady chided, smiling at him in a befriending way. Dubhán automatically smiled charmingly at her.

"Oh yes. I'm sure this will be quicker than getting fitted for a three piece robe," he said, laughing. Harry marveled at this strange boy in front of him, so different than the boy he had been housing for nearly a week now.

"Oh boy, yes! Mrs. Potter wants you to have a dress robe, but I promise I won't need any extra measurements! Whatever did you wear a fitted three-piece too?"

"My birthday," he said smiling wistfully.

"That must have been quite a party!" She said as the tape finished up and she ushered him off the stool. She turned to Potter now. "You can go now, Mr. Potter if the young man doesn't want to pick the colors. I'll order them in your usual colors. Mrs. Potter said to send it by owl to your mailing address - does that still sound alright?"

Potter looked at him for a moment and he shook his head. He'd already told them he didn't care about the colors.

"Yes, thank you Samantha."

"Sure thing, Mr. Potter."

Hermione cancelled whatever spell she had placed on the door - and one on the window apparently - and then they exited.

"How about the Quidditch store?" Harry cheered. Ron grinned. Hermione sighed. Dubhán arched an eyebrow.

"Harry..." Hermione said in a pressing tone. Potter's face fell a little but he nodded, apparently understanding whatever message had been hidden in the one word.

"Alright, alright. But I did promise Devlin we could go the bookstore."

So, despite the _look_ Hermione gave him, Potter led the way to the bookstore. Dubhán waltzed in and the shopkeeper, Jeremy, looked up in surprise.

"Why if it isn't Dubhán! Come to buy my shop out again, young man?"

"You remembered me?" Dubhán asked, his voice oddly soft at the idea that someone who didn't _have_ to remember him for fear of the Dark Lord's wrath, had remembered him anyway.

"I never forget a little boy who buys that many books," the shopkeeper said. "And Mr. Potter - I didn't know you knew this young man."

Potter's eyes were alight with something Dubhán couldn't quite identify, but whatever it was it wasn't _pleasant. _He covered the distance between the front doors and the counter with long quick stride.

"This is Devlin Potter, Jeremy," Potter said, softly, leaning across the counter slightly. There was a false smile on his face that might have looked real to anyone who couldn't see his eyes. Jeremy's face went ashen and his eyes flickered to the boy.

"I didn't know, Mr. Potter," he said nervously, wetting his lips. "I didn't know. You know if I had-"

"I know," he said, his voice kind with with an edge of finality to it that sent a shiver up Dubhán's spine. There was something dark in his eyes when he turned around again and when he came back to him and grasped his hand, he felt a shock of magic race from Potter's hand to his. Perhaps Potter was more like Grandfather than he had ever fathomed, because that magic...

"Why don't you pick some books?" Potter was saying, the strange magic gone from their connected hands, his green eyes emerald and shining again, his tone fond and engaging. He was Potter again - that was the only way Dubhán could think of it at all. Ron was sharing a look with Hermione.

"Alright," he said slowly - feeling cautious around the man suddenly.

Hermione and Ron stayed by the front of the store and Potter followed him around, although the man left him _some_ room.

He moved a book from a shelf and came face to face with a steel blue eye. He frowned and removed another book, revealing the other eye.

"Hello," the man said softly. "Get over here now."

His rescuer. Except it wasn't who he had expected at all - not that he had expected any particular person - just not _this person_. He glanced to the side. Potter was two shelves away, at Quidditch.

"Well, stop dawdling, boy."

He dropped the books in his hands. It might have been in excitement, or worry, or surprise, or something else entirely that he didn't want to name, but either way, Potter's gaze snapped up at the sound.

"Devlin?" He asked, striding towards him. The man disappeared from the hole with a foul word. There was a note on the shelf instead. Potter pulled Dubhán behind himself (but never removed his hand entirely), withdrawing his wand and checking the note over for charms, portkeys, and hexes. When he was sure it was safe, he brought Dubhán forward again, to keep a clear eye on him, while he read the letter.

Whatever it said, it made Potter blanch and grab for Dubhán's hand once more.

"Pick your books," he said softly. "Go on."

Was he stupid? He looked at him incredulously.

"No one tells me what to do, Devlin," he said firmly, seeing the question he hadn't dared to ask. "I want you to have something to do at home. Pick your books out. It will be alright."

Dubhán moved awkwardly around the store. If they were watching he would defend himself by saying he was leaving every opportunity for them to succeed, but they didn't try again.

Potter paid for his books and they disapperated from inside the shop with the shop owners approval. They were at the edge of the wards into the house. Potter dragged him through with a forced calm to his appearance. He only relaxed his grip on Dubhán when they were _in_ the house and he had shut the door. Hermione and Ron were looking at him - knowing something had happened.

"Who was there?" Potter said, crouching in front of him in the hallway. Dubhán stared into the hard green eyes. They weren't right again. He wetted his lips but instead of answering he shook his head. His palms inched backwards until he was touching the wall.

_Not right_. There was something wrong with Potter and it made his insides quake in a way they hadn't since he was _little_.

"Tell me who it was, Devlin," he said, that hard edge attempting to hide itself - but Dubhán could still see it, lingering at the edges of his eyes and tone - and in his _magic_ itself.

"No," he said. "No."

"Harry?" Ron put a hand on Potter's shoulder and those green eyes snapped to the redhead. "You feeling alright, mate?"

The question seemed to trigger something in Potter and he shook himself a little, shaking his head.

"No...I just...I was really scared Devlin," he said, but Dubhán knew he had been something else as well, because that hadn't been fear in his eyes. He reached out to touch him and Dubhán side-stepped the hand. _Something wasn't right_. It was like the red eyes of Voldemort that always meant the man wasn't bothering to hide the monster he was, to Dubhán. His gaze was intent upon Potter, searching his eyes for the darkness that had been there, just a moment ago. His heart was beating quickly in his chest.

"Is everything alright?" Alexandra asked, stepping into the hallway. In that moment Dubhán couldn't have been happier to see her and fled from the man into the kitchen, lingering behind her form. She was there and _whole_ and _right_ and in that moment that was all that mattered to his mind and magic. She peered at him for a moment over her shoulder. How pitiful he must look, coward behind her, but she didn't say anything and Dubhán knew that he was safe there, behind her.

"There was a Death Eater at the bookshop," Harry said, his voice tired now as he peered at Devlin behind Alexandra. He had scared the boy. Somehow the boy had seen his _anger_ despite him trying to hide it.

Harry stood there, his son's cries from last night ringing in his head '_don't touch me!'. _He didn't want his boy to ever think of him like that - to look at him as he was now. He wondered if this was how he ever looked at Voldemort.

"Devlin?" He said softly, pleading. His boys eyes were on him, wide and intense with emotions Harry didn't want in the dark green eyes. His boy didn't move. His lips were pale, his chest puffing and deflating with _fear_.

Alexandra turned a bit and leaned down. She'd been trying so hard to be strong for their boy but there were emotions in her eyes as she peered at him. He allowed her to touch him, each of her hands on a shoulder, soothing. Harry felt a pang of failure and envy, looking at them.

"Are you alright?" She asked. His dark green eyes shifted to her and his pale lips parted.

"I want Geoffrey," he said suddenly and there was an edge of desperation to his voice that Harry hasn't heard since he was six. "Now."

Harry scrambled to his feet, intent to prove to his son that he would _fix this_ even if it wasn't him that could repair the situation. He grabbed the floo and called out to Sirius' house.

"Devlin wants Geoffrey," he said softly. Sirius frowned, but went to get the Death Eater who was apparently in the kitchen. The Death Eater was running towards the floo on his own, his eyes sharp and worried as he climbed through.

As soon as Devlin saw the Death Eater he _ran to him_. He felt another pang of failure and envy as he watched the Death Eater with _his son_ in his arms, soothing Devlin.

"Don't think, don't think, don't think," Devlin said into the man's shoulder, just loud enough for Harry to hear. Harry knew the boy wanted to be whispering the words and it was a testament to how upset he was that he couldn't.

Geoffrey's eyes flashed for a moment in fear. He looked at them imploringly over Devlin's shoulder. His face had gone ashen and his whole face screamed: what has happened?

"That's right," Geoffrey began, his eyes wide upon them with fear even as his voice was quiet and tranquil - as if he were reciting something. He remained on his knees, swaying a bit to calm Devlin. One hand on the boys back, the other on his head, keeping it against his shoulder. Harry thought he was avoiding Devlin seeing _him_, his face so clearly full of fear. "You're not going to think about that at all. Don't think, don't think, don't think. You're going to think about the ocean. Write your worry in the sand. See the wave coming? It's washing away your worry. Don't think about it. Here's another wave. It's almost gone now. Another wave - do you hear it crashing against the sand? - against your worry. There is no worry anymore. Just waves. Again and again and again. Just waves. What are you seeing?"

"The waves," Devlin said, his voice suddenly empty, the fear gone from his tone. Harry blinked at the change. What was happening?

"That's right," Geoffrey put the boy down. Harry wanted to speak to Devlin about what had happened, now that he was calmer, but Geoffrey changed the subject before he had the chance. Harry thought it was absolutely purposeful and wanted to glare at the man - but now Devlin could see them and he didn't want Devlin to be afraid of him again. "What are you wearing?"

"Jeans and a t-shirt," Devlin said glancing back at him.

"Muggle clothes," Geoffrey said. Devlin raised his eyes, as if he truly hadn't known. "Do you have something to change into?"

"Your new clothes are on your bed," Alexandra broke into the following silence.

"Go get changed," Geoffrey said, giving the boy a tap between his shoulder blades in the right direction. When Devlin had left the room Harry opened his mouth, but Geoffrey held up a hand.

"He's listening," he said. So Harry cast a mild silencing spell.

"What did you do?" Harry demanded.

"I calmed him down," Geoffrey said casually, but Hermione was already stepping forward, shaking her head.

"You did more than that. That's rudimentary Occlumency! That's how it's _taught_."

"No, that is _not_ how it is taught. If I were _teaching him_ he'd be _independent_ but he is _dependent_."

"I don't understand," Alexandra said softly. Harry peered at her, because of all of them, he had suspected _she_ would understand anything connected to Occlumency. But then again, she had never been _taught_ the art - like her father it came automatically to her.

"There have been times in the boys life," Geoffrey began slowly, peering at them all wearily, "when it was necessary to protect his mind from Voldemort - both for my safety and for his own. The boy doesn't _know_ that is what I am doing."

"What does he mean? Is he modifying his memories?" Harry looked at Hermione for answers, but the girl _shrugged_ and suddenly Harry _needed_ to know and he strode over to the flames again. There was a black haired hook-nosed man staring at him within moments.

"I need your opinion on something," Harry said and the man sneered, but came through.

And so it was that Severus Snape was standing in his home for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Harry wasn't sure what his world was becoming. The Potion Master looked to be thinking along the same line.

"What do you want, Potter?" Snape sneered.

"Is it possible to walk someone through Occlumency without teaching them it?"

Snape stared at him for a moment, his gaze hard and unreadable.

"Are you referring to the child?"

"Yes."

"Explain yourself in more detail then, Mr. Potter."

"Devlin was upset," Harry began. "He asked for Geoffrey-"

"The Death Eater?" The obsidian eyes regarded the man for a moment, sneering.

"Yes. Then, when he saw him he began to say 'don't think' over and over again. Geoffrey started talking about the ocean. Hermione said he was _teaching_ Devlin Occlumency, but Geoffrey said he wasn't because Devlin was dependent upon him for it. I want to know what he means and if it is modifying Devlin's memories!"

Snape stood there for a long moment, methodically cleaning his hands with a rag he had brought though.

"You used visual aids?" He asked Geoffrey, a look of academic curiosity momentarily replacing his sneer.

"I merely made the boy stop thinking about it," he said simply.

"Why not simply teach him, if you are capable yourself. Clearly the boy is capable."

"It would not sit well with the Dark Lord," Geoffrey said carefully.

"But he is capable, yes?"

"...yes."

Snape raised his eyebrow at the tone.

"Ah...you never _wanted_ him to learn." He stepped closer to the Death Eater. "You never wanted to Dark Lord to _suspect_ he were _capable_ of hiding anything completely."

"Yes."

"What is so damning that you have hidden for the boy, then?"

Geoffrey pushed his lips together, but did not respond.

"Is it modifying his memories or not?" Harry asked impatiently.

"It is not. Since you were once familiar with muggle things, it would be what the muggle's refer to as 'hypnotism'. The Death Eater gave Devlin's mind something else to associate with the memory. The memory won't surface to his mid without the associated memory as well - the visual aid-"

"The ocean," Alexandra supplied.

"Very well. It isn't foolproof by any means, but if the Dark Lord is disinclined to tear the boys mind apart (thus rendering him insane) it would work spectacularly and almost invisibly. The boy would never suspect anything but that the man uses a routine that calms him." Snape was peering at the Death Eater carefully. "But you...you're capable of the real thing."

"Yes."

"Here Dumbledore was thinking you have been driven to your betrayal by capture, but you have been betraying your Master all along," Snape sneered, his endless eyes boring into the Death Eater.

"He told me to keep the boy safe at all costs," the Death Eater said. "I did."

**Please review! It only takes a second. It means so much more. Reviews work like magic, for me and for you. If you've already reviewed you know that I respond (after all, you're doing something for me, it is only polite) and I usually give reviewers some insight/sneak peek. ;)**

**So review!**


	10. Shifting Thoughts

Devlin had left looking like a child in the jeans and t-shirt and came back looking like a young man in grey slacks and a white button down shirt. There was a vest thrown casually over the shirt, left unbuttoned. Harry was pretty sure it wasn't the sort of thing Alexandra would order for Devlin and the look she gave him, confirmed Harry's theory.

Snape eyed the boy from the sofa were he had reluctantly seated himself after Alexandra had basically bullied him into a cup of tea. He was always more pleasant with Alexandra than Harry.

Devlin eyed the Professor, but Harry noted that their eyes never _met_. Devlin had taken the Potion Master's words to heart, last night. Geoffrey was seated across the room in a chair, tense around Harry as he always was. As he should be.

"You look dashing," Hermione said, breaking the awkward silence. As if it weren't perfectly clear to the child that they had been talking about him behind a silencing charm.

For a moment the boy didn't answer and his face remained the expressionless mask that Harry had become to know so well. Then he shifted his gaze away from Geoffrey and nodded.

"Thank you," he said. There was a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips, softening his eyes. It made him look boyish and striking and Harry could imagine, with a small shutter, all the girls that would follow him around at Hogwarts. He had that 'bad boy' air even now and it nearly made him laugh that the 'Golden Boy' would have the 'Bad Boy' who mothers and fathers alike would fear. Geoffrey was looking at him oddly.

"Where did the vest come from?" Alexandra finally asked.

"I transfigured it. It felt odd, not wearing _something_."

Harry blinked, trying to image what the boy must wear - what would Voldemort dress a child in? The image of his son, standing defensive on the bed in the safe house flashed before his eyes. He had been wearing a button down shirt then, too. Green, at that. And charcoal grey pants. With a dragonhide cloak - they'd gotten plenty of looks for it during their outing. Harry could never trust Emma with anything so expensive and it was odd to think of his son being trustable with such things either - he still pictured the mud covered boy who used to troupe all through the house and then proclaim it brilliant that he had left tracks 'like a wild animal!'.

"Little one?" Geoffrey asked, his words catching in his throat. Harry thought Devlin would glare - the Death Eater had obviously used a nickname Devlin wouldn't possibly allow in public, but instead the boy frowned softly.

"Hoping I've forgotten already what I am?" He said, a chill to the edge of his voice, but humor coated it all and made it less sharp. It was everyone else's turn to frown with confusion.

"No," Geoffrey said.

"Well then, call me by my name or finish that whole - but don't leave it like _that_."

The Death Eater glanced at him and Harry didn't need Legimency to know that Geoffrey was _worried_.

"Of course." Harry cringed at the soft words - like Geoffrey had accepted an _order_. Harry noted, however, how Geoffrey avoided 'finishing' the nickname. "I must be going. I am supposed to meet with someone soon."

Immediately Devlin's eyes narrowed and focused and he took a step forward.

"Who?" There was intensity to his regard that was disarming in a strange way. One simply had to look at the boy - his posture, his eyes, his expression - to know that he was dangerous. It was not a look that Harry found suited him, but then again a little over a week ago, Harry had still been picturing him as a six year old boy.

"Albus Dumbledore." Devlin's magic swirled in the air, breathing into life abruptly. It was sharp and deep and Harry felt his breath catch in his lungs.

"Don't," Devlin said sharply, with the razor sharp edge of desperate caution. He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief and warning all at once. His magic was in the air. It brushed by Harry, calming him. "It is inexcusable. Don't."

The words fell too sharp, too cruelly, too knowing from his mouth for them to be Devlin's originally. Harry knew who the words belonged to - a monster who would have finished the them with the torture curse. Yet, beyond the sharpness to the words, was a calmness that extended through the boys magic and seeped into Harry's mind.

Geoffrey knew what was happening before Harry himself did. The Death Eater (who was rapidly earning an 'ex' before the title) reared to his feet. There was anger and betrayal in his blue eyes.

"Don't you _dare_!" He said sharply and he actually came forward and _pushed_ Devlin. Harry felt an inexplicable need to _protect_ Devlin. That's when he knew. The anger in his mind was not his own. The deep hurt and _fear_ belonged to someone else. The desire was not his own.

_I can make animals do things, without training them. _

"Don't think for one minute that I will let you do that to me!" Geoffrey growled, rounding on the boy again, stepping forward until Devlin took a begrudging step back - intimidated. "We've always been equals, but now you will _treat _me like one, and I will do the same to you. I do not take orders from you nor will I any longer take orders _having to do_ with you."

The magic spun around and back to Devlin, angry. Harry blinked, horrified. His son had tried to _control _the Death Eater. Imperio. He swallowed past his suddenly dry throat.

"Where did you learn that?" He asked, unable to quell the question. His boy turned to him slowly, eying him through baleful green eyes.

"Like that, or with a wand?" There was a threatening edge to the tone of his voice and Harry knew if he asked for clarification he would get the truth. Devlin was daring him to want to know.

"Both," he said, resolute. Devlin cocked his head and arched a brow. Snape was looking pale and transfixed. Harry almost rushed forward and grabbed Devlin to haul him out of Snape's hearing, but the answer came too quickly from Devlin.

"I don't know. It took me until I was seven with a wand." The answer was matter-of-fact, but Harry could see the boy _waiting_ for his reaction.

"What else can you do?" He asked, hearing his own shaky voice.

Devlin laughed and it frightened Harry that it sounded so genuine.

"More than I'll ever tell you," he said. He spun toward Geoffrey, eying him critically. "I thought you cared about me."

"I do."

"You can't, if you'll talk to him about me."

"I will no longer take any orders having to do with you," Geoffrey said, reiterating his previous point. "We are equals now - both indebted endlessly to each other."

"He's not indebted to anyone," Harry said abruptly. Debts could be dangerous.

"Are you so sure, Mr. Potter? Regardless, I did not make an oath with him about the debts nor did he with me. This is simply a moral discussion."

It tore Harry to pieces that he didn't understand. _What_ had Geoffrey done for Devlin? What had he hidden for Devlin? What had Devlin done for him?

Devlin regarded Geoffrey with a new sort of intensity.

"I will no longer take orders concerning you," he said after a while. He held out his hand. "As I am a minor, we shall shake hands merely as a symbol of understanding."

Again, Harry knew they were not his own words. He had shaken hands 'symbolically' before. Harry wished he knew when and for what reason.

Geoffrey nodded and took his hand.

oOoOoOoOo

No matter what Geoffrey claimed, Dubhán's chest remained tight the entire afternoon. Emma was off somewhere else, the man was in his study, talking with someone who had fire-called him, and Dubhán was in the kitchen, alone with the lady. He suddenly missed the ease that Emma brought - making the man and the lady act less _knowing_ in front of the girl. She was a kind of shield, he realized and with this realization he felt a twist in his gut. _Yearning. _Where was the little girl? Wasn't she supposed to be here, safe? No place was safer - not because he trusted Potter's wards or either of their ability to protect Emma, but because he knew the house would not be attacked. Grandfather would rescue him, but everyone else would be safe if it happened here.

"_I'll hate you if you hurt them." _

"_Don't be ridiculous, child. Potter-"_

"_I'll hate you forever if you hurt Emma." There had been an intensity in his own eyes that he could _feel _and there had been a spark of _something _in his eyes as a reaction to his words."I'll run away, if you hurt him in front of her." Dubhán remembered the spark clearly, because it was the first time he thought he ever worried Voldemort._

The lady was sipping at some tea, regarding him with her intense blue eyes that still managed to make him think of Grandfather. Could they see things, like Snape and Grandfather? He looked down at the wooden table, just in case.

"Do you know what Occlumency is?" She asked suddenly, her words purposefully casual, as she brought the tea to her lips. Dubhán shook his head, still regarding the table. "It is a barrier, between one mind and another."

He frowned at the table, drawing non-sense patterns onto the surface with a finger. A barrier in the mind?

"It is the counter to Legilimency," she continued, putting her tea down carefully. He could feel her eyes boring into him. "Legilimency is the art of invading a mind and seeing it's memories. It is what Voldemort uses. It requires eye contact."

He felt his heart pound, both with dread (_don't think, don't think, don't think!)_ and almost unmanageable curiosity. There was a way to _stop_ it? He looked up, unable to stop himself. There was a regard filled with _knowing_ to meet his _unknowing_ face and he flushed with unfounded anger at the expression.

"You're stupid if you think it's that easy," he said, his hand shaking upon the table just enough that he felt compelled to pull it onto his lap. His lips were suddenly dry. The muscles across his chest spasmed with a rush of adrenaline. How would she know? When had she been forced to prove her worth to him? When had she felt the ghost of something else in her mind so often that it hurt when it _wasn't_ there?

"I want you to have lessons," the lady said again, picking up her tea and regarding him over the rim. He kept his eyes on the table, feeling like a deer in her regard when he should feel like the wolf.

He heard the man's footsteps treading down the hallway and turned around in his chair to regard the man as he came to the door.

"Hey," the man said, looking drawn and exhausted suddenly. Where had all that life gone that had been there while they were in Diagon Alley?

The lady was behind him, her eyes piercing him and Dubhán felt that if he spent one more moment in her presence she would _know_. His skin crawled with the mere idea. He swung his body off the chair to face the man.

"We used to go flying together," he said abruptly, his head pounding from the gaze glued to the back of his head combined with the rapidly widening one in front of him. There was a flash of life in the man's eyes - like a Revival Spell cast on a barely-alive man.

"Yeah, we did."

"You said I wouldn't escape because now I know you know how clever I am - so can we go flying in the yard?" Somehow the little bit of remaining 'Devlin' knew that the man couldn't refuse flying with him - that it would be the most disarming proposal. Dubhán used this knowledge to escape the lady. He tried to ignore that a tiny bit of himself that didn't hate the idea of flying with the man.

Those green eyes flickered to the lady's blue behind him and for a moment Dubhán felt as if he might lose the man's willingness, to the lady behind him. Then the smile crept back to life upon the man's face. It made his emerald eyes alight like fire.

"Run and get your cloak. I'll get the brooms," the man said, grinning. Dubhán didn't need to be told twice, he rushed out of the lady's vision. When he came back down, it was, once more, only her in the kitchen. He shifted awkwardly at the door.

"He's out back already," she said softly, looking up from a piece of parchment. There was a knowing smile upon her lips. "He's ecstatic. Try not to let him know you just wanted to avoid our conversation, hmm?"

He felt his face shifting into a sneer and his eyes narrowing at the lady's _acknowledgement_ of his actions. She was letting him know that he hadn't fooled her.

"I'm more clever than that," he said as he strode past her. She flicked her wand and the back door opened for him.

"I'm over here!" The man called out, in the middle of the yard. Dubhán walked forward. He wouldn't run - this was merely a way to avoid the lady and although he wouldn't tell the man that, he wasn't going to rush at him as if he really _was_ eager to spend this time with him. Somehow his purposeful strides didn't manage to wipe even a fragment of that grin off the man's face.

"Have you ever been on a broom alone before?" The man asked, when he had at last reached him.

"Yes. I know how to fly a broom."

"When did you last fly?" Harry asked. Geoffrey had laughed when Sirius had talked about Devlin riding a broom and he wanted to make sure the child would be _safe_ up there. Somehow he knew the boy would baulk at the idea of Harry riding _with_ him.

"I can't say."

Harry frowned.

"You can't remember?"

"No. I remember. I remember almost everything. I can't say. It's different."

"Why can't you say the last time you rode on a broom?" Harry asked, scratching the back of his head where a headache was building with his confusion.

"Because, it wasn't for fun. I've never ridden for fun."

Harry frowned, but then it hit him. Brooms were an excellent way to escape Auror's or Order members. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he'd ever been close to Devlin over the years. Had he raided _his_ camp? Was a captured Auror ever _there?_

"Oh. Well, let me see you try then. I'll keep my wand on you, just in case."

Devlin gave him a one-sided shrug. His wore a half-smirk half-frown across his lips - one side dimpled in, the other hanging limp.

"Alright," he said, holding out his hand for a broom. Harry gave him his old broom. He had always planned for it to be Devlin's first broom. The boy called it up into his hand effortlessly and mounted just as gracefully. Soon enough he was soaring through the air, hovering, illustrating a left and a right turn, and coming down once more, right where he had begun. "Satisfied?" He asked, eyeing the wand that Harry still had pointed at the broom.

It was a perfectly mechanical illustration of his ability, but Harry nodded, because it did tell him the boy would be safe.

"Yes. Now we can both go up." The boy nodded. Harry let him mount first and go to hover in the air. He was ten or so feet off the ground and Harry came up to match his height. He didn't want to scare the boy by encouraging him to go higher than he was comfortable.

"We can take it as slow as you want," Harry said, over the wind. Devlin's gaze snapped to his own and the boy _laughed_ into the wind. It made Harry smile to hear the sound.

"Slow? That'd be boring!" He said and before Harry could so much as frown, the boy's body was leaning flat against the broom, racing forward at a speed that would rival his father at eleven. Harry was frozen, watching with amazement. Where had the technical flying gone?

The boy pulled up and led the broom into a loop. Harry grinned and felt his laughter get lost in the wind as he zoomed after his son. He reached into his pocket and released the Snitch.

It was only a couple minutes later that the boy took notice of the shiny object.

"Do you want me to catch it, or conjure balls and beat them into your side? I admit, one does sound more fun than the other..." There was a devilish grin there that Harry recognized as all _Devlin_.

"I haven't any bats. So we'll just have to race to see who catches the snitch first." The boy didn't even stay to acknowledge the game - he sped off toward the Snitch.

Like any father who had had their son taken from them and just returned would, he let Devlin win. It was only after they dismounted that he got the first inkling that it might not have been such a good idea.

Devlin marched up to him and shoved the Snitch into his hand.

"You cheated," he said, anger blossoming in his eyes.

"What do you mean? You won."

"Yes, exactly! You _let me_. I'm not a baby. I know when someone _lets me win_!" He stomped off toward the the house, his hair disheveled, his nose a bit pink, looking more like a stubborn disgruntled child than Harry had seen him since his return. Harry grinned as he walked behind his son into the house.

She was still at the table, when they came back inside - waiting for him.

"Did you have fun?" She asked, looking up from a stack of parchments she was writing on. Harry breathed deeply, nodding. Devlin remained silent, glaring.

"Want something to drink from the fridge?" The man asked him, moving past his still form to the cupboard. The Potter's kitchen was an odd mixture of what Devlin could only assume was 'muggle' and clearly magical. Devlin had never been in a muggle kitchen and he hadn't been in that many magical ones either, but something told him no wizard used a silver box to toast their bread and he _knew_ wizards did not use the word 'fridge' for a cold-spelled cupboard. The Potter kitchen had a large cupboard, in fact, spelled to be cold. It was beyond him why it had to be so big, since most wizards just used wizarding-space to make a small cupboard fit all their needs.

Devlin's gaze lingered on the lady's face _but not on her eyes_. He shook his head, like he did each time they offered to get him something. He would get it himself.

"Did you have fun?" She asked again, trying to catch his gaze, but he made sure to avoid direct contact. What would she see if she was able? His skin crawled with the memories that swept through his mind at the mere possibility. He hardly noticed that she had risen from her chair and was crouching down at his level, _looking him in the eye_. His eyes widened with sudden fear as he connected, unavoidably, with her gaze.

_Don't think! Don't think! Don't think!_

He felt a cold sting of panic envelope him and his magic fluttered quickly around him - rescuing him. The sharpness that had lingered at the edges of his mind had long since become a part of his whole, and at his sense of panic, the sharpness took over, overwhelming his thoughts. He felt empty for a moment as the sharpness took the control away from him. _Don't think, don't think, don't think_, it whispered, like it always did. The words made him think of the ocean, or maybe it was the sharpness that pulled up the image, he had never tried to examine it properly. Images of waves lapping at the sand filled his thoughts and quickly swept away any other thought that he managed to bring to the surface.

The lady blinked. Their gazes disconnected. The sharpness slunk back with his magic. He didn't feel so empty anymore.

"I don't understand," she said to herself, still regarding him.

"What don't you understand?" Potter said, still cheerful, having just turned around from the 'fridge'. He looked oblivious, but one glance at his wife's face and he seemed instantly attuned.

"You said...you didn't believe me that there was a way to protect your mind," she said, looking flustered. Her inability to articulate her thoughts made him freeze and he felt the beginning creep of uncertainty crawl up his spine. She wasn't supposed to falter. Ever.

"There isn't," he said, and his voice was louder than it should have been. "You're stupid if you think there is."

She didn't react except to frown. She opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better and shook her head once, slowly.

"I need to make a call," she said, walking out of the room. The man arched an eyebrow at her quick retreat.

"Erm...want some lunch?" He asked, trying to sound casual. Devlin frowned for a moment, ready to deny the help, but then his gaze flittered over to the papers the lady had left on the table.

"Yes, please," he said softly and the man fell for it - turning around cheerful to look in the fridge again. He walked over to the parchments. He wasn't sure what he expected to find - probably something having to do with him, but instead he was met with a script he hadn't a clue how to read. _Goblin_. He knew that much.

"Yeah, don't ask me what that's about," the man said and he jumped, sure the man would be upset that he had been reading the document (or trying to, more precisely).

"It's Goblin script," he said automatically.

"Yeah, that I knew," Harry said, taking a sip of a butterbeer, looking over his shoulder. "Can you read it?"

"Only one word," he said. Harry had his eyebrows raised in an impressed manner. "Ward. She uses that word a lot, here."

"Yeah, probably. It's probably a redesign for some big place."

oOoOoOoOoOo

"You're afraid of him," Geoffrey said finally, after spending an afternoon dodging questions about the boy. Dumbledore's brow drew together infinitesimally and his blue eyes widened with with what Geoffrey was sure was fiend surprise. He drew his hands from his lap to settle, steepled, upon his desk.

"I apologize if my questions have led you to that conclusion." His blue eyes twinkled and his lips quirked into a small knowing smile, but Geoffrey didn't think he knew much at all about the boy. Perhaps that, in itself, frightened him. Dumbledore, like Voldemort, was used to _knowing_ things. They were accustomed to having the knowledge always at the edges of their minds, either from gained knowledge and experience, or directly from their obviously renowned brilliance. Unlike Voldemort, however, Dumbledore doubted himself, leaving himself open for _fear_. "Do you think I should be afraid of the boy?"

He disguised the serious question as an innocently pacifying comment with a light chuckle, but Geoffrey saw it for what it was. He observed the whole of the old man, from the speed of his blinking to the sound of his heartbeat. As a 'feral' werewolf he was used to reading body language - both visible and invisible.

Geoffrey merely smiled at the man.

"May I have a lemon drop?" He asked, motioning to the bowl he had hours ago refused. Dumbledore arched one of his brows, as if to mark that he understood Geoffrey was avoiding the question (and thus that Geoffrey knew of it's hidden importance), even as he lifted the bowl and held it out for him. "Thank you."

They fell into silence for a moment, with Dumbledore regarding him and Geoffrey doing the same. Geoffrey didn't dare try to invade Dumbledore's mind (such would be inappropriate considering his status around the 'light'), but he made sure Dumbledore didn't gain entrance into his memories either.

OoOoOoOoO

Dubhán took the path of least resistance and escaped into a book. It seemed better than slinking away to _the room. _Better than the memories to be confronted up there. Even if it meant he had to tolerate the man deciding to keep him company in the living room. The man had taken up residence across from him on an opposite chair. His eyes were scanning a stack of papers piled in his lap. They looked about the same thickness as the pile he had seen him with before, and Dubhán suspected it was the same pile. He looked back down at his book, more relaxed than he thought he could be, in the company of Harry Potter.

The man jumped up at the sound of a bell. Dubhán extracted himself from the book in a much more dignified manner. It was a mirror behind the sofa making the sound. The surface had become slightly opaque. Potter looked over at him nervously.

"You can stay if you want, but can you slouch down so they can't see you?" He was too curious to argue, besides he was well practiced at not being seen. He laid down on the sofa, well hidden by it's back. The book was propped up against his chest, but he wasn't reading anymore.

"Harry?" It was a man's voice.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Right. I see you now. The Minister wanted me to call you," the voice said. Dubhán felt his blood chill.

"Oh, what for?" Potter asked, his voice casual, as if the Minister often called him at home.

"He wanted to invite you and your son to tea, tomorrow," the man said. He sounded purposefully _professional_. Like he was a friend of the man's and didn't particularly want deliver this message.

"Oh." Potter paused. "I'm afraid Devlin and I have an appointment tomorrow already. I really can't rearrange, but tell the Minister I'll call him when things settle down here, if I don't bump into him at work before then."

"Harry..." The voice was closer now, but also softer, as if the person had leaned forward. "It really isn't...tea, you know...they want to speak to the boy..."

"Sam," Harry said, in the same whisper, as if he too were leaning close. "I know exactly what I said, and I meant it. We have other plans tomorrow. I'll call the Minister when it settles down, if I don't bump into him at work."

There was a sigh.

"They want answers, Harry. They think this might be an opportunity..."

"Let them want to know, Sam. I won't _let_ them have him over 'for tea'."

"Harry," there was an urgency to the voice now as it grew more hushed. "You have to know they'll start questioning your right to be on the case - they have already. The leader of a case having to do with his own son...there are whispers. More is at stake here, Harry. If they-"

"Sam?" There was a dangerous edge to Harry's voice and if Grandfather had used that tone (which he did, quite often), Dubhán would have been fingering his wand and had a shield charm on the tip of his tongue. The other man must have made some motion that he had heard Harry. "You tell them that if they _dare_ try and set up an interview above my head or if an Auror steps foot on my property without my permission or invitation - I'll leave. I'll walk away. I won't help them and I damn well won't lift my wand to protect them!"

For a long moment there was silence.

"I'll pass that along, Harry." There was a fear, a tremor, a sense of doom and defeat, in Sam's voice. Dubhán frowned. All Potter had done was threaten him verbally and his voice was quaking? He hadn't even said he'd hurt them, just that he wouldn't help them or protect them. Why, he'd practically threatened to ignore them. What was so terrible about that? Couldn't they take care of themselves, whoever they were?

There was a whooshing sound, not unlike the floo, and then the man said tiredly, "You can sit up, if you like, Devlin."

"They want me to tell them all about Grandfather, don't they?" He asked, still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Potter came around the sofa to sit on the chair again. He looked dejected, leaning forward and supporting his head in his hands.

"They're desperate," he said softly. "They think Voldemort told you things that he wouldn't tell anyone else."

"Why do they think that?" He asked, curious. He was careful to side-step the almost-question about information he might have.

"They think that because you're my son, Voldemort felt comfortable sharing this with you..."

"That's illogical," he said softly, because it was, even if the fact that he knew things was true.

"Voldemort would know, the Ministry theorizes, that I wouldn't ever allow your mind to be picked apart or let them _make _you tell."

Dubhán felt himself fall very still for a moment as Potter's (or rather the Ministry's, but possibly Potter's disguised as the Ministry's) 'illogical' idea twisted and became logical.

_The best place to hide something you don't want to be found is somewhere no one will look. _

Had Voldemort done that to him? Purposefully? Had he hoped one day that Potter would find him again and realize this? Had he _meant_ for him to _hurt_ Potter, this way? Suddenly the weight of the book on his chest felt suffocating and it took great effort to ignore the crushing feeling and feign a sense of disinterest.

"Or perhaps he didn't hide anything in me, because he would be too afraid you wouldn't have to _make_ me tell."

"I hope you're right, Devlin," the man said, and when Devlin looked over, it was to find the man's emerald eyes on him, looking at him as Devlin had once looked at the picture of the little girl in the room - like he wanted to remember every detail.

Emma arrived shortly before dinner, accompanied through the floo by an older red-headed women who the lady called 'Molly'. Dubhán eyed them both over his book, his eyes resting on the little girl for a moment. Long enough to see her weary glance at him. Long enough to see the uncertainty written all over her face.

He rose to his feet, somehow more disquieted by her fear than he knew he ought to be. He folded a corner of his page down, to mark his spot. It was a habit that drove grandfather crazy, but Dubhán liked the mark of progress and sometimes he would flip through a book and pause on each dog-eared page, to remember what had recaptured his attention when he had been reading.

"If you'll excuse me," he said automatically, tucking his book under his arm and turning toward the door. He was in the hallway when he felt the touch on his arm. The book tumbled to the floor and he nearly spun around snarling, except that the grip was too delicate to be any of the adults.

"I made a picture for you," she said, her little voice soft and cautious, her little hand falling away from his arm, her little blue eyes gazing at the floor as her other little hand came up to offer him a piece of parchment. He took the paper slowly, feeling uncertainty spreading rapidly through his body. A picture?

He turned it in his hands to see the crudely drawn image. It was clearly of a human-type thing. It had green eyes and a wand in it's hand. There was a brown cloak obscuring it's body and it was standing amongst three other human-like things, two taller, one shorter. A picture of him and the man, lady, and girl. A family. It looked as though she had originally drawn him frowning, but then tried to reapply a smile. Even in a child's drawing he didn't look right smiling.

"It's you and mum and dad and me. And Zee!" She pointed around his elbow at a blob with four legs and what he assumed was a tail, although it might have been a fifth leg.

There was a sun shining in the corner and green grass beneath their feet.

"I made you happy in it," she said softly, that fear creeping back in her face. "Because I wish you were."

He shut his eyes, still facing away from her.

"Are you happy?" He asked randomly. He could picture her frown as she made a soft '_huh_?' sound in the back of her throat.

"Yes. I'm almost always happy," she said after a moment, innocently, childishly, without grasping the true motive behind his question.

"Good," he said, folding the paper and tucking it in his pocket. "I want you to be happy."

She was frowning again, he was certain, but he couldn't manage to turn around. He leaned down and picked his book up off the floor.

"Thanks, Emma," he said, and continued up the stairs, fleeing from her and the swarm of _something_ in his chest. He closed the door to the room behind him, suddenly breathing shallowly and too quickly.

His nightmare drummed in his chest and pulsed in his brain. Emotions consumed him as he once more pictured Emma in place of that little girl, years ago. _Afraid_. He never wanted her to be afraid like that girl. He never wanted her to be _alone_ and _hurt_. He never wanted anyone to make her scream.

He curled his firsts at his sides, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes until he saw bursts of lights.

The picture had fallen to his feet and when he opened his eyes it was the first thing he saw.

_I wish you were happy_.

_I want you to be happy._

But how would he know, if she wasn't? Would Voldemort really tell him? He was older now, then he had been when he had made him promise not to scare her. Older and wiser and more logical. Voldemort would never order the girl not to be harmed, because that would be revealing that Dubhán had power over his actions, small as that might demonstrate. What if he attacked her school - what if she was trapped in a crowed, killed without anyone knowing she was there?

The room felt small, suddenly. His chest felt like it was filling with ice. His muscles roiled against his body, twitching.

He looked at the picture.

_I made a picture for you_, she had said.

_I'll keep you safe, Emma. _

He would make her something that would keep her safe. He would make her something that would let her tell _him_ if she wasn't. He would _make sure_ that Grandfather kept that promise.

He'd need his wand, which meant he'd need to be 'good' for Potter for two more days. He wasn't entirely convinced the man would give it to him willingly, but his chances certainly wouldn't _decrease_ by good behavior. Perhaps if he could convince the man that he felt something for them...

He knew he was risking a lot, playing this game, having these thoughts, making these plans, _making these memories_, but he'd risk anything for her.

"_I'll do anything for her",_ he had once said to Grandfather, early on.

"_You don't know what that means",_ his grandfather had said, sneering in a demeaning way. Like he wasn't _good enough_. Like the blonde man had looked at him when he had been crying.

"_I know what I said"_, he had ground out, feeling that anger fill him that hadn't been there before the _pain_. "_And I meant what I said."_

He put his book away and opened the door, forcing his breath to come evenly as he came back down the stairs.

"Where'd you go?" The little girl asked, peering up the stairs from the living room. She'd been waiting for him.

"To hang your picture up," he said, smiling charmingly at her. He knew how to be charming. The Dark Lord had been charming as a child.

Her eyes lit up like brilliant sapphires. Her cherry red lips turned upward into a smile that showed off her tiny little teeth. The freckles across her nose crinkled with the expression.

"You liked it?" She asked.

"Yes." He said. "Can you make me another?"

**Please review! It only takes moment, it means so much more! :D**


	11. The Day After Tomorrow

"The Ministry Ball is next week," Harry said randomly over dinner, eying Alexandra. She pursed her lips, as if she already had an opinion formed and Harry's wide emerald eyes weren't going to change it. She didn't say anything and Harry, seeming to submit to the fact that his bait hadn't worked properly, sighed and tried again. "I want us to go."

"You go every year," Alexandra said, nonchalantly, but even Emma had caught onto the structure of her sentence.

"Don't I get to go again, mama? I was _good_ last year. I want to get a new pretty dress."

Alexandra's eyes flickered to the child, Harry's brow arched, Emma continued to look hopeful, and Dubhán frowned at them all.

"We'll talk about it later," it was a response to the little girl, but the words were for the man. They finished dinner. The man did not dare to bring the topic up again.

In fact, it was Emma who brought it up again. While the lady washed the dishes (without magic, which he couldn't understand) and the man dried them (without magic), Emma leaned across the table and grinned at him. She'd been less weary of him ever since he had complimented her picture, which he found strange and a bit foolish, but she was only a child. A normal child. Not like him.

"At the Ball everyone gets dressed up," she said, her eyes sparkling. "And they play music and everyone dances."

She dumped out of her chair and spun around in her simple yellow dress. Dubhán smiled at her happiness, so easily achieved when he could hardly ever feel it no matter how he tried. In a moment of thoughtlessness he too climbed off his chair and offered his hand to her. She grinned and giggled and took it willingly, her little hand laying inside of his own, smooth and unharmed and _innocent_.

He stepped into position across from her and began to lead her slowly through a dance.

"Like this," he said, demonstrating for her. She bit her lip as she tried with him the second time. By the fifth time he was able to twirl her and she spun away and then back to him again. She jumped up into the air and laughed. It was only when he heard a deeper bout of laughter that he realized the lady and the man were _watching_ him.

"You know how to dance?" Alexandra asked, frowning.

He tipped his head to one side, considering whether he should answer.

"Bella taught me," he said, choosing to cut off the fact that it was probably the only worthwhile thing she ever had or that it was the only time he ever tolerated her.

Harry nudged her gently and when she turned to look at him, he grinned widely. Somehow the expression reminded him of Emma and he flickered his gaze to the girl, looking for other similarities.

"Oh, come on, Alex. We can't hide here forever. Devlin will get _bored_."

Of course. He would be the reason they wouldn't attend. An opportunity at escape.

_An opportunity to be good. To get his wand back. To protect Emma. _

"I'll think about it, Harry," she said finally, seeming to cave slightly in his regard. "But right now it's time for bed."

He straggled behind Emma.

"Are you really going to give me my wand back?" He asked the man, who seemed to take up responsibility for him, since Emma was currently leading Alexandra up the stairs by a finger, pleading about some storybook or another.

"You'll know in two days," he said, smiling crookedly and pushing his spectacles up his nose. Dubhán frowned, but he didn't argue.

The man walked him into the room, standing awkwardly by the door.

"Professor Snape is coming tomorrow," he said, as if he thought he might have forgotten. Renowned Potion Master. Traitor. Mind Reader. How could Dubhán forget?

Dubhán pulled out a set of green pajama's from his dresser, determined not to snap at the man to leave his room as he stepped further into it. It wasn't _his room_ it was _the room_ and even so, he was determined to get that wand back. Dubhán understood all about pretending to feel things he didn't - otherwise he would have never survived Voldemort. He was well versed in acting one way and feeling another.

"I remember," he said, a bit tensely. The man sat down on the bed. Dubhán took his shoes and socks off on the floor.

"I want you to be healthy," the man said softly, looking at his intertwined fingers resting on his lap. "I don't ever want to see you like...that again."

Dubhán looked away, tucking his shoes next to his bed - ready for him in the morning.

"You were hurting. I don't want you to hurt, Devlin." Bright emerald eyes lifted to find his darker regard and there was a desperation in the older gaze that startled Dubhán. "Please...tell him how to brew the potion, Devlin."

Dubhán looked away. He wanted to tell the man _no_, to sneer and snarl out 'if you don't want me to hurt, send me back', but he didn't, because now he had something to do before he left. He had to make sure Emma was safe.

"Alright," he said, as he peeled the socks off his feet and tossed them neatly in the laundry basket that was shaped like a Quidditch goal post. The laundry disappeared, vanishing to the laundry room, no doubt.

There was a brightness of a different kind when he turned to glance at the man again.

"Thanks for being nice to Emma," he said, smiling fondly. Dubhán looked away, because the last thing he wanted was a reminder of how much the man loved the little girl. Of how heartbroken the girl would be, when he died. She would be safe, though - and that was all that mattered.

"She doesn't have anything to do with this," he said, feeling a bit of _fight_ creeping into his voice, even as he tried to conquer it. "There's no reason to treat her badly."

There was a long moment of silence.

"I know I failed you, Devlin," the man said miserably, his green eyes cast like hooks into his darker ones, his hands shaking on his lap, his voice quivering. If Dubhán gave him another moment, he'd probably start crying. Making someone cry probably didn't fall under the 'good' category, but since Dubhán wasn't used to this sort of thing, he couldn't be entirely certain about this sort of crying. It was far too easy to upset this man and Dubhán felt a headache coming on at the prospect of tip-toeing around his emotions for another two days.

Dubhán didn't know what to say to a truth that made someone cry. He wasn't about to sway the man (he knew he couldn't, anyway) and so he just didn't say anything.

"I don't like changing in front of people," he said finally, holding up the pajamas. The man looked up, nodded, and retreated into the hallway. Dubhán changed and wondered if the man had already seen all the scars across his body while he was unconscious that first day. Somehow he didn't think the man was the type to invade a person like that. He tried to avoid his reflection in the mirror, from the bite mark on his shoulder to the scar on the bottom of his foot from his first day in that dark cell.

When he was all dressed he opened his door again. He expected the man to be there, waiting for him. Instead he was gone. He felt anger bloom in his belly that he hadn't expected and it drove him across the hallway to the door. He knocked loudly but the door swung open under his knuckles. The man was in the room, changing himself. His black lounge pants were already on and he was in the process of pulling a white shirt over his head.

Scars.

Dubhán felt his body still and his breath hitch in his throat. There were scars on the man, all up and down his back. Torture marks. He turned to walk away, but the man had already spotted him. He pulled the shirt down quickly.

"Devlin!" He said, firm but softly, and rushed to his side. "Did you need something?"

"I didn't tell you to leave!" He said, the shock and anger and _uncertainty_ rushing through him, melting together and creating something _new_ that he wasn't sure how to express. "You left and I didn't say you could!"

The man frowned as if he were trying to puzzle something out. For a moment Dubhán thought perhaps the man couldn't imagine what Dubhán was talking about, but then his eyes flickered to Dubhán's door down the hall and realization flashed across the brilliant green of his eyes.

"But I didn't leave, Devlin," he said softly, expression softening with his knowledge. "I was right here." He pointed into the room. "You can always find me, Devlin. I _always _want to see you. If you don't see me and you want me, come get me."

Dubhán searched his gaze, not understanding entirely and not finding anything but truth in the regard.

"What did you want to say?" The man asked softly, prompting him. Dubhán wasn't sure anymore.

"Where are all your scars from?" He asked. It hadn't been what he had wanted to say before and it certainly wasn't what he meant to say now, but the question slipped past his tongue, regardless. It was not as though he particularly _needed_ the answer - he had seen scars like those before.

Potter's eyes didn't widen, which proved to Dubhán that the man had known he had seen. Instead the Killing Curse regard drifted away from his own to stare down the hallway.

"Lots of different places, I suppose," he said eventually, trying to avoid the topic. Dubhán, on the other hand, was suddenly transfixed by this seemingly unimportant similarity that they shared.

"From him?" He pressed, feeling a very odd feeling overtake him. That sharpness injected itself a bit into his thoughts, nosing around. He felt his eyes take on a more amber hue.

Potter looked for a moment like he wouldn't answer, then he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and a bit of resolution flashed across his tipped green gaze.

"Yes. There are plenty from Voldemort - in one way or another."

Dubhán felt himself shift a bit and the oddness in his mind bloomed in his chest as well, prompting his heart to beat faster and his muscles to twitch with a rush of adrenaline. He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to pick at this topic with the man, except that he felt so odd about his scars and had never seen someone _else's_ torture marks look so much like his own. They were a show of his once-weakness, of his once worthlessness, of his once _childishness_. The sharpness urged him on, pushing the words he might have clung to indefinitely out into the world for Potter to hear.

"I have scars too," he said. When the words had finished he became sharply aware of how hushed the house was. The green eyes snapped to his. He waited for the disgust to plume in the green gaze, but instead there was love. It was just as confusing to Dubhán as the first time he had seen it in the man's eyes. Perhaps once upon a time he had understood the emotion.

"I'd do anything to make it never happen, Devlin," the man said quietly, his eyes downcast and his shoulders shaking slightly. He was going to start crying again.

_Yeah, me too. _

"But it did," he said, dismissively. It had happened. There was no 'anything' that would erase it from his past. He was different because of it and because of that, he couldn't regret that it had happened too much.

_You have to stop hating yourself. There's no going back,_ Geoffrey had once said to him, when he had been too little to understand. Sometimes he still felt he was too little to understand most of what Geoffrey said to him in times like that. Still, Geoffrey had explained it to him patiently. If he hated what had happened then he would hate every moment from then until he died. If he hated who he had become, then he would spend the rest of his life _hating _and _fearing_ and being _angry_. Then he would be the same as Grandfather and _that_, Dubhán wouldn't do. He was supposed to be _better._

He still remembered the curious look Voldemort had given him when he had asked tentatively why the man hadn't killed him. It was a foolish question, he knew - even then. The Healer who had worked to hard to make sure he survived under Voldemort's orders (and for the price of his own life, Dubhán could now guess) had blanched when the words had spilled past his tongue. He had still been sickly, too weak to rise out of bed himself. Voldemort had tipped his head and stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowed in annoyance that he would _question_ him.

'You are an experiment," he had said, his voice neither kind nor cruel. He hadn't cast a silencing charm, leaving the Healer to hear, but Dubhán had been too little to expect the charm and so he didn't notice it missing until years later. The Healer had never commented about the conversation. 'I have often wondered what I would have been like, if I hadn't begun my life around filthy Muggles. Your blood may be tainted by Potter's and his Mudblood mother, but the rest of you is Pureblooded and you are a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, just like I. We even look alike.' Dubhán hadn't understood and Voldemort hadn't pressed for a response. They had never spoken of it again.

Dubhán turned away from Potter.

"I won't hate myself for what I am," he said. Potter looked at him strangely for a moment.

"Good," he said finally. "He made you have something to do with all of this and you shouldn't hate yourself for any choices he took away from you, Devlin."

It was Dubhán's turn to snap his gaze to the emerald eyes. It didn't escape him how the man had turned his own phrase about the little girl around. Voldemort hadn't _made_ him do anything. Not even scream.

Emma's door opened and saved Dubhán from saying something stupid when he was so intent on being _good_ and getting his wand back.

"Hello," the lady said kindly, to them both. "Emma is asleep," she added. She looked between them. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Harry said, surprising Dubhán. Wasn't he going to tell the lady what he had told him? "I was just letting Devlin know that he can wake us up if he needs too."

"Of course," the lady said, nodding at him. Dubhán looked away.

Potter was keeping his secret?

Dubhán nodded and turned to leave. They turned to enter into their room. He paused with his hand on the doorframe to the room.

"If I promise not to run away, can Emma go dancing?"

He hated to be the reason she might cry. He wanted to be the reason she smiled, because soon enough, he wouldn't get to see her smile at all. Soon enough he would be gone and she would forget him again.

The man paused, but it was the lady who seemed more startled by the words. She tipped her head for a moment, staring at him across the hall. Then she straightened herself and nodded.

"You'll have to be fitted for a four piece robe...of course," she said, a bit of humor in her voice. So she had talked to the seamstress.

"Of course," he replied, nodding.

"And if it is _you _who wants Emma to go, I expect _you_ to be there for every _wonderful_ moment of her _choosing_ which color dress she will wear _this year_. And Harry, you too. You missed that most wonderful parenting moment last year." But Harry wasn't a gracious winner and his face-splitting grin was unrelenting. He nodded goofishly.

Dubhán frowned at the way it seemed to change his whole _being_. Gone was the jaded soldier. Gone was the protective father. Gone was the man who could barely look at him without that _failure _flashing across his eyes.

"Of course, baby. I'll take her, if you want. You can take Dubhán, how does that sound?" She eyed him as if he had finally gone crazy, pushing her lips into a tight line and arching her brow.

"You drive me crazy sometimes," she said and then she spun around to head into their room. The man turned and winked at him.

"Don't worry, she's just upset she didn't get to me and my brilliant mood," he said, flashing a smile. Then suddenly the smile dimmed and a more serious mood swung across the man's face. "You'll come find me if there is something you want, right?"

Dubhán nodded, because that is what a normal boy would do, he thought. Normal was good. Good was a wand, back in his hand.

OoOoOoO

_Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid. _

His grandfather had always said that if you tell a fool something enough, they'll believe it. Not for the first time in his life, Dubhán hopes he has a bit of a fool in him. Zee was beside him in the bed, looking at his upright form appraisingly. Dubhán looked away, sure the dog could smell his fear.

_Don't think, _he told himself, curling his hands into fists around the blanket. He wouldn't be afraid of having some stupid nightmare. **He wouldn't! Wouldn't! Wouldn't! **

Zee crawled over to him to lick his white knuckles and Dubhán felt a shuddering breath open up his lungs.

_Don't think. Don't feel. _

He let the breath out slowly, calming himself.

_Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what has to be done. _

He climbed out of the bed, certain enough he wasn't going to sleep.

Tomorrow was the 'day after tomorrow' and the fact that when he awoke Severus Snape would be downstairs wasn't helping his thoughts at all. He climbed onto the chair at the desk, searching for a piece of parchment, but there was nothing but small scraps of the material.

Surely they had to have proper parchment somewhere. He cast the bed one more longing glance before slipping out into the hallway. He wasn't sure that tomorrow he would have the foolhardy courage to betray his grandfather to Snape like he did now, with Emma's words still so fresh in his mind. Grandfather hadn't told Geoffrey how to brew the potion. He had only told _him_. Only he could save himself. Only he could _choose_ to save himself. Would Grandfather have preferred he let himself die?

He climbed down the stairs. The lights were on down the hall. This time it was the lady at the table, seated next to a young lady with hair more red than his mothers.

"Hello," the young lady said, alerting Alexandra of his appearance. The young lady was dressed in working robes, wearing Dragonhide boots. She hadn't been getting ready for sleep, that much was apparent.

"Oh, hi Devlin. Are you alright?" She looked up from her papers, her blue eyes focusing all their intensity on him. He nodded.

"I wanted some parchment," he said softly, stepping into the room. He was aware of how childish he must look, feet socked in bright orange material, green and grey striped pajamas clinging to his small frame. In that moment he regretted not demanding he pick out his own colors as the seamstress had offered. Did most children enjoy dressing so _brightly?_

Alexandra frowned for a moment, but then she lifted her wand and lazily summoned a few pieces. They shuffled out from under the doorframe of the room she had gone into to make a fire-call. They came into her hand and she offered them to him.

"Do you..." He touched his lip in hesitation, a habit that had refused to leave him and drove Voldemort crazy, "have a spare quill too?"

She arched a brow.

"Do you treat them nicely or ruin them like your sister?"

The young lady next to her giggled. He frowned but shook his head.

"I won't ruin it," he said after a moment, when she seemed to want to hear the words. She placed the papers down on the table and lifted her wand again. An eagle feather quill raced out from under the same door, then the door opened a crack and some ink followed after it, both landing on top of the parchment.

"You can write here," she said, after a moment. Her blue eyes were soft and kind, but there was an edge of acknowledgement in them. She certainly didn't underestimate him. She thought he was up to something.

"Alright," he said, seeming to surprise her with his willingness. It wasn't as if he particularly _liked_ being in that room, anyway. He settled himself across from them and leaned over the table to reach the parchment, ink and quill.

He caught her watching him as he wrote "**A Draught for the Suspension of Cruciatus Curse Induced Seizures" **across the top of the parchment and then underlined the title. The young lady was openly staring.

He moved the quill down and wrote **_Ingredients _**under which he wrote, in smaller, finer letters _amounts given for a batch of twelve 4oz vials. _The only ingredient that gave him pause was 'Bacopamonnieri', because for a moment he couldn't remember if it was spelled with one or two N's.

When he was done he moved further down the page and began to describe the manner in which the ingredients should be prepared, under the proper title of **_Ingredient Preparation. _**Further down was **_Brewing Directions_** where he tried to break down the complexity of the potion into manageable steps. When he was done he had filled two parchments, choosing to only write on one side. It had always annoyed him when he had to flip a page to finish a potion.

He went to the sink and wiped the eagle feather quill off and topped the ink again. The lady hadn't looked up for a while, her eyes roaming over the Goblin script before her, translating it into English on another page. He waited until he was pretty sure she had reached the end of a paragraph.

"Excuse me?" Her eyes shot up, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. She waited, her eyes itching to return to the manuscript. "Would you mind drying these papers for me?"

Her brow quirked, but she lifted her wand to preform the charm.

"Thank you," he said, climbing off the chair, grabbing the papers, and beginning to head out the door.

"Are you having trouble sleeping, Devlin?" She asked softly, before he had made it around the corner. He froze.

"No," he lied, keeping his back to her.

There was a moment of silence, in which he knew her eyes didn't leave him, but then he shrugged it off and continued out of the room. Zee was sniffing at the top of the stairs, obviously having realized that he had left longer than it took to use the loo.

"Get back in bed," he said softly, as he climbed the stairs. The dogs head popped up and his tail wagged. "Well - go on." The dog _danced_ off down the hall. Dubhán wasn't sure how describe the way the dog sometimes moved, it's back end going in the opposite direction of it's front - like it thought it was a snake or something. It pushed the door open and flopped onto the bed, huffing as it waited for him.

He tucked the parchment into a drawer of the desk and pulled one of the books he had purchased with Potter off the top of the desk to bring back to the bed. **Significant Potions Throughout History. **

Dubhán wasn't sure if only an hour had gone by, or many more, but eventually the door shifted open to reveal the lady. The focus was gone from her eyes, replaced by tiredness.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," she said softly, stepping into the room. Her fingertips had black smudges and she smoothed them out against her nightgown absentmindedly.

"I'm fine," he said, flicking his eyes back to his book as a mark of his dissatisfaction with the question and her company.

"That's what your father always says," she said softly, leaning her back against the doorframe. There was a soft smile on her face, a mixture of fondness and sadness. "Over the years I have learned its true translation." He arched a brow, but didn't look up. She would tell him anyway. It was important to her and whatever point she was trying to make. But she didn't and eventually he looked up out of curiosity.

"I'm alright," he said, trying to urge her out of the room.

"No you're not," she said, that same mixture of fondness and sadness lacing her voice. "But we'll change that together."

And she was gone, leaving his mind churning with her words.

OoOoOoOoO

Dubhán awoke to the sound of knocking. He sat up quickly in bed, his heart pounding, his hand darting out to grasp his wand-

He felt dizzy as he realized it wasn't there and stumbled out of bed, as handicapped by the lack of the wand as he imaged someone might feel who had lost a hand. The knocking continued, stronger and louder, and his heart beat quicker as well.

He stood at the door for a long moment. The man and the lady would have _said_ something, by now. Who was on the other side?

He swallowed harshly as the all the possibilities swam in his mind. His breath caught in his lungs as the possible identities mixed with the consequences of their appearance. Was the lady alright? Was the man dead? Was Emma screaming?

The knocking continued. He reached out a cold hand to wrap around the cold knob and yank it open.

_"_Hi!" He felt his chest constrict as the fear swept away suddenly - like putting weight on a foot that had fallen asleep.

It was Emma, still in her nightie, a teddy bear tucked under an arm.

"Mum and Dad are talking to the mean man downstairs," she said in a whisper, nodding with wide eyes.

"The Professor?" He checked - because it was what he suspected, but suspicions weren't always right and he supposed it could have as easily been Voldemort.

"Yes," she said, shifting from foot to foot uneasily.

"He's here to talk to me," he said, leaving the door to turn and gather some clothing. Emma invited herself in, sneaking onto his bed and settling herself down beside Zee. Dubhán blinked when he turned around to find her there.

"I don't like to change in front of people," he said, blinking again. He certainly didn't feel like he could rage at her to leave or physically remove her and quite frankly he wasn't sure how to deal with someone who he couldn't deal with that way.

"Oh, me neither," she said. "I'll hide under your blankets, promise!" And she did just that, messing his blankets up as she flung them over herself. He blinked.

"Are you almost done?" She asked. Zee had been covered as well and was turning in circles under the covers.

"No..." he said, slowly, with a large amount of uncertainty swelling in his chest. He closed his door and, keeping an eye on the blanket, did the only thing he could think of - he changed.

"How about now?" She asked.

"Yeah, alright," he said and she flung the blankets off of herself (and onto the floor) with a big huff. Zee was panting. She looked a bit flushed. He tugged his socks (a bright green this time) on and then his shoes.

"You look handsome," she said, smiling. She brought her teddy bear around to the front of herself. "Do you have to look handsome for your meeting with the scary man?"

"His name is Severus Snape," he corrected, baffled by her childish nature. "I want to make a good impression."

He grabbed the letter he had written last night and re-opened the door.

"Are you leaving?" He asked, as she merely sat there, watching him. At his urging, she stood and went into the hallway. He expected her to go to her own room, but instead she lingered right behind him and when they reached the stairs, she paused and her hands twisted at her bear.

"I'll wait here," she said at last, sitting on the top step, body leaning against the banister. Dubhán blinked again.

"You're really scared?" He asked, the softness of his voice surprising him. He sat down next to her for a moment.

"Enough," she said, looking away. "Uncle Sirius says he used to be a bad man," she said "one of _them."_

He frowned as he saw the un-child behind all the childish props. Somehow her nature had allowed her to stay more innocent than him - or perhaps this was what he had been like, when he-

He shook himself. _Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. _

"I'd never let anyone hurt you," he said and unlike Potter, he meant it. He'd do anything for her.

She looked at him for a long moment, her brilliant blue eyes haunting him. There was a sharpness at the edges of them, a _knowing_ and not for the first time Dubhán wondered if what separated him from other child was only his ability to articulate what he was experiencing.

"That's what Daddy says," she said softly, hugging the bear close.

"I mean it more," he said, a bit of hurt and anger coming to his tone. She tilted her head and leaned back a tiny bit - _weary_. He swallowed, more hurt than he thought he should be, at the expression of distrust. He rose to his feet and descended the stairs silently.

There was a silencing charm up at the door and he stood there for a moment, simply watching them talk to each other. The lady was sitting casually in her chair, but Potter and Snape were both leaning forward, tense. He stuck his hand into the invisible field, alerting them all to his presence. It was Potter who turned first, indicating to Dubhán that he had been his charm that was disrupted.

"Hey Devlin," he said softly, banishing the charm with a lazy wand movement. "I didn't know you were up yet."

"Emma woke me up," he said tensely. "She was scared." It was jab and he watched closely to make sure Potter had felt it. He seemed only slightly fazed.

"Emma knows perfectly well she can interrupt us anytime," Alexandra said, with a bit of volume, as if she _knew_ the little girl would be able to hear.

"Seeing as the child _is_ indeed awake, perhaps we could accelerate this whole process. I do have other potions brewing..." It was the dark-eyed man. His lips twitched into a sneer as he put the tea down.

"I didn't intend to keep you waiting," Dubhán said sharply, his own sneer twitching onto his face. He felt the man's eyes on him again, sharp and intent and _intruding_ and snapped his own gaze away to look at his hooked nose. He stepped forward, just as pleased to see the man come and go as the man himself seemed to be at the idea. Emma was scared. He put the folded parchment on the table-top in front of the dark-eyed man's tea, with a bit of firm _purpose_ behind the movement.

Snape's eyebrow twitched minutely as his long slender fingers stretched out to unfold the parchment. Then that gaze was swinging to him again, as fast as a well-aimed whip charm through the air, to arrive back at his dark green gaze _intruding. _

"You memorized the recipe?" Snape questioned, unfounded harshness in his voice - or perhaps it was the cover for something far more incriminating like _admiration. _

_"_No," he said smoothly, allowing a knowing smirk to caress his lips. His eyes alighted and he curved his brow just slightly. "One doesn't need to memorize a recipe if one knows how to brew the potion."

There was a moment of silence as Snape's eyes rescanned the paper - looking for any flaws, Dubhán felt.

"Will that suffice?" Dubhán questioned at last, his voice sleek and subtly sarcastic, knowing it would _more _ than suffice.

"This is indeed suffice as brewing instructions" Snape bit out, rising to his feet, rolling the parchment up, and tucking it inside of his cloak. "Whether or not the instructions will brew the correct potion are another thing entirely."

But Dubhán knew it would, so he just smirked as the man left through the kitchen doorway.

"Good day, Emma," he said as he saw her sitting at the top of the stairs. Dubhán was starting to wonder why Harry was the only one he called 'Potter'. The hallway was painted green as he went through the floo in the living room.

"Thanks, Devlin," the man said, looking relieved. Dubhán bared his teeth at him for a moment, before stepping forward to call Emma down. "Wait just a sec, alright?"

It was a whisper and it made Dubhán freeze. The man had sounded nervous. Uncertain. But not in the same fear-based uncertainty that Dubhán had become so familiar with.

"What?" He said, trying to sound nice, even though his conversation with Emma was burning in his mind. _I mean it more. _He swallowed down the anger as best he could, picturing his wand. He took a breath and turned around.

The man was sitting at the table still, his body leaning forward slightly, one hand on the table, laid gently over a wand.

Dubhán stilled, because it wasn't the man's wand, it was his. His ten inch sapele and phoenix feather wand, sitting on the table. In Harry Potter's hand.

"It's not the end of the week," he said quietly, wetting his lips, not quite believing that it was _there_, whole and _together_ and that Potter hadn't just snapped it in half. The lady's lips were pursed and she stood up, murmuring a soft 'excuse me' as she passed him to go into the hallway. It was plain to him that she didn't agree with him being handed his wand.

"I know, but you're going to go to Hogwart's with me and I want you to have it with you."

He wetted his lips again.

"Don't you think that is rather foolish?" He asked, always one to have trouble not pointing out the obvious to others.

Potter smirked at him and Dubhán blinked, because in the end they didn't have that different of a smirk.

"Perhaps I am a fool then," he said, shrugging. "But really, do you want to call me a fool if I'm handing your wand to you?"

Dubhán thought about it for a moment. In the end, he was the boy to ask Voldemort why he hadn't killed him just as he was the boy to nod here.

"Yes. I'll always call you what you are," he said and Potter blinked and _neither_ of them missed the covered jab behind the words. "Why are we going to Hogwarts?"

He tried to ignore the bloom of curiosity growing in his belly. Grandfather often spoke about Hogwarts with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. 'My first home,' he would whisper at the beginning of a story, 'was Hogwarts'. Sometimes, Dubhán could even tempt him into sitting in Dubhán's comfy chair and telling him a story while he drifted off to sleep. Dubhán would never attend Hogwarts, because it was a 'light' school and besides that, Dubhán knew most of the theoretical work they'd cover in first and second year already. So perhaps this would be interesting and when Grandfather rescued him, _he_ could tell a Hogwart's story. He'd leave Potter out of it, of course.

"Albus owled me to remind me I had volunteered to take part in the Defense Against the Dark Art's class today. I do it every year for the Fourth Years."

Dubhán wasn't sure what a fool like Potter could teach, but considering the class was probably full of fools itself, Potter probably had something valuable to say to them - at least in their opinions. Still, he felt himself grow uneasy at the Headmaster's name. Albus Dumbledore. The only man his Grandfather had ever feared, or at least that was what the Death Eater's whispered. Dubhán thought maybe he was a teeny tiny bit scared of Potter, too.

"It'll be fun, I promise. We'll floo through the Headmaster's office and after the classes I'll take you to fly on the pitch, alright?" Potter's eyes were alight but _nervous_ and Dubhán knew there was something the man wasn't telling him. His insides twisted.

"Why do they need you?" He asked, shuffling his feet. Itching to reach out to his wand. Potter looked away for a moment and Dubhán felt his insides twist again.

"Every year I come in to do a segment on the Unforgivable curses for the Forth Years."

Why was Potter all nervous about saying _that?_ There must be more. Floo through the Headmaster's office...

"Will I stay with you there?" He asked, narrowing his eyes, looking urgently for dishonesty from Potter.

"Well yeah..." Potter seemed a bit baffled.

"You won't leave me with the Headmaster alone?" His tone of voice made Potter frown.

"No, I wouldn't." And Potter's tone of voice and mannerism made Dubhán frown. Perhaps Potter wasn't Dumbledore's pawn like Grandfather had always believed. "Dumbledore is a good man Devlin, but he believes himself responsible for a great many lives and sometimes...he considers us _too_ equally."

Dubhán was not a stupid child. He was cunning and clever and brilliant. But perhaps at nine he couldn't have known so keenly what Potter meant if he hadn't been raised with the fact constantly in his face.

"You mean he see's Grandfather in me." Looking like Voldemort was favorable in his world - it had made him _live_ because Voldemort had seen him as himself. Dubhán did not need to be especially brilliant to reverse this theory. Dumbledore would see him as Voldemort, a boy he probably regretted not killing as a child.

"Yeah," Potter said, frowning and eying him carefully. "I'm telling you this because I know what it's like to feel left in the dark - to have yourself be a 'discussion topic' but never in your presence. Dumbledore wishes I would ask you things that I won't."

"I won't betray him," Dubhán said, and he meant what he said. He wasn't ready to toss Grandfather aside as he meant nothing to him.

"I know," Potter said. "I'm okay with that." He furrowed his brow. "Can we talk more about this when we get home? If we don't leave soon we'll be late. Let's go grab our cloaks. If you run into Emma, tell her you're going to work with me. She'll cling to my leg and won't let go if she knows we'll be within fifteen feet of Hagrid."

Dubhán nodded.

UPCOMING:

Potter settled the rat on the top of Remus' desk, which has magically cleaned itself. The contents were still busy sorting themselves into neat piles on a counter behind the Professor's main desk. The rat squeaked, fidgeting atop the desk. Dubhán watched the animal, wondering how far Potter would take this. He didn't seem the type to be able to stomach torture, let alone cast an Unforgivable. Was it his imagination or did the rat have a missing toe? He almost sniggered at the imperfection in Potter's transfiguration - although the rest seemed flawless.

Please review! I mean it - please!


	12. Professor for a Day

The Headmaster's Office reminded him a bit of Grandfather's office, except that the contents of Dumbledore's seemed to have no clear organization, whereas it felt the opposite entering into Grandfather's. Here, Dubhán felt like he might be able to move an object and place it elsewhere and the Headmaster might never know. In Grandfather's office, Dubhán had always felt that he was disrupting something just walking on the floor.

"Hello," the man himself said, but Dubhán ignored him, since he'd already assessed the man before turning his attention to the objects.

"Hello, Albus," Potter said, politely. Potter was still holding Dubhán's hand, his grip unyielding. Coming through the floo Dubhán had thought it was to keep him from going somewhere he ought not - to prevent an escape. Now he wondered if the reasoning behind the tight grip was something else entirely.

There was quite a bit of him that wanted to disentangle his hand from Potter's hand, but a smaller, more clever part of him made him pause. There was no reason why Dumbledore should be privy to where his loyalty lay.

He let Potter keep his hand, allowing his arm to relax in the hold.

"Hello, Devlin," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling just like Grandfather had always described. _'And that damn twinkling...'_

He kept his features perfectly still, even as he drew in the air to answer the man.

"My name is Dubhán," he said quietly, but with that firm, caustic air about him that had always made Grandfather smirk. When he heard others use this tone their lips were always sneering and their eyes were narrowed, but Grandfather had never appreciated the voice as much when Dubhán's face had also shown his contempt.

"Ah yes, I did hear you preferred it said differently," the Headmaster said, still smiling (but Dubhán knew it was false - he had seen enough false smiles), his eyes still twinkling. He leaned forward a bit behind his desk. There was a sweet comforting smile tugging at his lips. Dubhán mimicked it perfectly on his own lips and he saw Dumbledore's head tilt, just a bit.

He turned to Potter and they spoke briefly about lemon drops and school Quidditch. Just as Dubhán was tuning them out, his gaze flickered back into focus.

"-Ministy?" It was Dumbledore and Potter's hand squeezed his tighter.

"I haven't got much to say about the conversation, Albus," Potter said, a bit forced. Dubhán pretended not to be paying attention. Potter was rubbing his thumb along Dubhán's hand, as if trying to get his attention.

"I understand you're reaction, Harry," Dumbledore began, "but it is a bit rash. There are...precautions we can take to soften the impact. Perhaps we could discuss appropriate questions and have it limited-"

"They aren't going to talk to Devlin, Albus. I know you're the great politician and we need that - I know that. But I am not. Where this is concerned I am your soldier second and his _father_ first. They won't be talking to Devlin."

Dubhán turned to look at Potter, done pretending. There was a fire in Potter's eyes that shone like a green flame behind shattered glass. His shoulder's were taunt and his feet planted firmly. The hand around Dubhán's hand was tight and _there_ and promising _protection._

"He's done being used for _anything_," Potter said, his voice firm and demanding and _unquestionable_.

_'We are done discussing this. It doesn't matter what you want. You are mine. Try and argue and I will prove it to you, child.'_

Once more, he felt _lost_ for a moment in a fog of _not knowing, and knowing and not wanting to remember. _

Dubhán was used to being valued. Grandfather valued him, otherwise he wouldn't be alive. It took a great deal of value, Dubhán had learned, to stay alive - especially when there wasn't much he could _do_ for Grandfather unlike the Death Eater's and especially because he was a _child_ and he did and said things that Grandfather found extremely annoying. Dubhán knew what it felt like to hold a great deal of intrinsic value.

Yet Dubhán had always thought that value came hand-in-hand with ownership. When one valued something enough to _keep it safe_ one also strove to _own it, control it, keep it_.

Potter wasn't claiming ownership of him.

_He's done being used for anything. _

Anything.

The word struck him hard in the gut, twisting and wrenching his insides. His mind scrambled.

Anything.

_Anything_: used to refer to a thing, no matter what.

_Anything. _

It was like Potter was saying: _he's free now - no one can own him_.

"I'll talk to you later, Albus. We'll be late if we don't hurry up."

Dumbledore nodded and said something to Potter which he shook his head too, but Dubhán wasn't really paying attention. Potter tugged them out into the hallway.

"Are you hungry? I know I said we'd stop by the kitchens."

Dubhán shook his head numbly.

"It won't be that long, then we'll grab something before visiting the pitch, alright?"

Dubhán nodded.

A few paces up, Potter stopped.

"Are you alright, Devlin?" He asked, turning around to look at him. They were going to be late. They were skipping breakfast...but Potter had paused because he was _worried_ about him. His gut twisted again.

"Yes," he said, his voice a wash of air, his eyes dazed and unfocused, his hand limp inside of Potter's grip.

"Tell me the truth - please Devlin."

_Tell me the truth_. The words were different coming from Potter than they were coming from him.

"Did you mean it, what you said back there?" He asked, his words too quick for his sluggish mind.

"Which part?" He said, then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter which part - I meant everything I said in Dumbledore's office."

Dubhán nodded, his mind still scrambling. Potter's green eyes were peering at him carefully, full of _love_. Dubhán looked away.

"I meant it, Devlin," he said, as he straightened himself. "He stole you from us, then he stole _you_ from yourself."

Dubhán wrenched his hand away in a moment of anger. He looked up at Potter with his eyes burning.

"I kept me," he said as he twisted his face into a glare and snarled to keep the betraying tears that wanted to come. "I kept me. If I wasn't me I wouldn't be _alive_!"

Potter paused for a moment. They stood in silence. Then there was a wash of noise down the hallway and the thumping of feet. A group of students suddenly came around the corner and sprinted past them. They were younger, certainly not fourth years (at least, Dubhán thought not, but he didn't have many children to compare for age).

"Let's talk about this later," Potter said, his words tight and constricted and somehow Dubhán knew he, too, was keeping tears at bay.

They walked down the hallway for a while, then down a staircase and through another hallway. They arrived in front of a door just as a straggling student was sneaking in.

"Hey Mr. Potter!" He said, smiling nervously and dashing inside. They followed after him. Potter no longer had his hand and Dubhán was immensely glad of that when he found a group of thirty or so students staring at him.

It was only the appearance of Remus that distracted him from the body of students. Potter was greeting him politely. Dubhán stared at him, cajoling his wolf to remain dormant despite it's strong desire to greet this man. It only took one more glance at the students for his wolf to meekly step aside.

They were all staring at him with an open interest that unnerved him.

"Whose the kid?" A boy asked abruptly, his voice meant for his friend but not quiet enough. He was wearing black robes with red lining and a lion crest. _Gryffindor. _

Remus sent the boy a heated look and he bowed his head meekly. But now the other body of students, the ones wearing _green_ were looking at him more intensely. His skin crawled.

_'Is that the boy?'_ One of the students in the back asked, his voice so hushed that Dubhán knew only Remus and he would have heard. Remus flickered his gaze to him for a moment, trying to be comforting, he was sure. '_Yeah, the one who ran away' 'He doesn't look frightening at all' 'Can't be him' 'Maybe they glamoured him'_

Remus stood and cleared his throat. Dubhán took a step away from Potter.

They were watching him. Measuring him. Trying to gauge his loyalty by his every move. Watching - his closeness to Potter, his reaction to Remus, his expression, his body, for a wand, for harm, for illness, _for anything that would keep him from escaping or hint that he was disloyal._

Dubhán knew where all this information would go - knew who would see it all. Knew grandfather would extract these memories and watch them and see him - see him standing passively in the same room as Potter. See Remus with him. See him unharmed and healthy and _able to escape. _

He felt numb all over, his heart so rushed that it had slowed down, his fingers so cold that the tips were numb, his mind so scrambled that he could feel it pulsing inside his skull.

"Mr. Potter is here as the Head Auror to oversee our lesson on the three unforgivable curses." Remus voice rang through his head, making it pound more.

'_Why'd he bring a boy here today?' _That was from a Gryffindor. A Slytherin sitting near him sniggered but wouldn't answer the Gryffindor's questioning regard. Dubhán knew, though. He wetted his dry lips. Potter wasn't looking at him, instead he was staring at the class, a serious look on his face as he let Remus finish. He had swung his Auror robe on, something he had carried until now, and Dubhán took another step away, instinctively.

_'You must not be seen by men wearing white robes'_ The rule had been drilled into his head constantly by Voldemort. The words crawl through his head, panicked. A multitude of worries crowded in his mind, pushing and shoving for his full attention. They were watching him. Potter was watching them. They _knew_ things about him, even if it was only rumors.

_Don't think. Don't think. Don't think!_

"Because the Unforivables are illegal to perform without permission from the Ministry, all practical teaching of them must be in the presence of an Auror with the ranking to cast them and oversee the curses being cast." Potter's voice was clear and crisp and _serious_ in a way Dubhán hadn't heard it before. He's heard him angry, he's heard him worried, he heard his voice filled with emotions and love, but he's never heard him so serious. It made his eyes flicker toward him for a moment. He was looking at the class firmly.

"We're not here to teach you _how_ to do these spells. I am here to make sure you know what they are and hopefully when we're done, you will have a better idea of why they are _illegal_. Anyone who leaves this class and performs these spells is, in the Ministry's eyes, doing so with full knowledge of the spells effects on humans and animals alike - and of their illegal status. You will be prosecuted to the fullest extent." He glared at them for a moment and they all went hush.

Dubhán's brain continued to pound, his vision pulsing. A boy had asked a question and Dubhán tried to focus on Potter's answer - anything to stop his thoughts from spiraling out of control!

"I am the only Ministry official licensed to cast or give permission to cast, the unforgivables," he said, his tone as hard and somber as his regard to the boy who must have asked the question. The boy shrunk back a little, clearly wary of anyone who had free reign to cast the torture curse.

There were murmurs across the classroom and more hands shot into the air. Dubhán watched them, watching him. The green-cloaked Slytherin's were mainly regarding him. Their eyes flickered from Potter and Remus, but remain regarding him longer.

"I'm sure many of you have questions for Mr. Potter," Remus interjected, making a lowering motion with his hands that resulted in the raised hands coming down slowly. Their eager faces remained, staring at Potter. It was the curious eyes that were on him. "Perhaps Mr. Potter will have some time after the lesson to take some questions. Until that time, let us begin the lesson."

Potter nodded; his gaze still hadn't shifted back to him. Dubhán wondered if Potter _knew_ - if he was justSlytherin_ enough_ to understand that Dubhán was being watched.

"Auror Potter, since you are the overseer, which curse would you like to start with?"

Potter reached into his robe pocket rather than answer Remus immediately. Dubhán wasn't sure what he might have expected Potter to withdraw from his pocket, but it wasn't a simple knut.

"Let's start with the most inconspicuous," Potter said softly as he placed the knut in his hand. Dubhán watched as he withdrew his wand. It was the first time Dubhán had truly _watched _the man move and he was surprised at how fluid his movements were - a sign of a skilled and practiced wizard. Not at all the 'boy' that Voldemort often spoke of him as. The wand was waved over the knut and shifted and twisted until a rat was squeaking nervously in its place on Potter's palm.

"The Cruciatus Curse is the only Unforgivable that can be blocked with a shield." His voice was steady and commanding, drawing the attention of all the students. Even the curious eyes of the Slytherin's moved away from him to regard the rat Potter was petting softly. "The others - the Imperius Curse and the Killing Curse, cannot be blocked by magical shields - no matter how powerful it is. You are defenseless against their attack. Unless, of course, you happen to have a non-magical shield such as marble around. _However_, while the Imperius can't be blocked it has a different weakness. The victim can shake it off. You can _make it stop_. How? **Willpower**."

Potter flashed him a quick glance and Dubhán could feel the _worry_ in the regard. But Dubhán wasn't worried about what Potter clearly was, because he has heard this all, seen this all, felt almost all of this. He avoided Potter's regard and tried to shake off the feeling of Remus' regard as well.

Curious. The curious eyes were on him again, but instead of flushing with worry, he sneered at them, pulling himself straighter. _Fear is for lesser beings than I. _

Potter settled the rat on the top of Remus' desk, which had magically cleaned itself. The contents were still busy sorting themselves into neat piles on a counter behind the Professor's main desk. The rat squeaked, fidgeting atop the desk. Dubhán watched the animal, wondering how far Potter would take this. He didn't seem the type to be able to stomach torture, let alone cast an Unforgivable. Was it his imagination or did the rat have a missing toe? He almost sniggered at the imperfection in Potter's transfiguration - although the rest seemed flawless.

"Imperio," Potter whispered, his green eyes alight. The rat twitched ever so slightly. Dubhán half expected the curse to be so powerless that the _rat_ would shake it off. After all, one had to _mean it_ for the Unforgivables to work. The rat fell uncharacteristically still. Dubhán realized he hadn't expected Potter to succeed.

"What shall I have him do?" Potter asked the class, his voice booming across the silence. "I could make him do whatever I wanted. I could make him jump off this desk. Perhaps I should give him a running start..." The rat seemed to snap into alertness and began to walk evenly, casually, across the desk until it was at the other end. It turned around and at a look from Potter, it began to run towards it's impending death. There were gasps and wide eyes and eyebrows touching hairlines. Dubhán was perfectly still, watching the rat.

"Stop," Potter whispered, even though Dubhán knew he hadn't needed to _say _ the command at all. The rat stopped, mere centimeters from the edge. It didn't squeak. It didn't fidget. It was perfectly content. "Do you understand? No, probably not yet. Should I make him jump into one of your backpacks, summon an owl to have him as a snack, or perhaps I should make him dance a jig - oh we think that one is funny do we?" The spurts of laughter that had broken through the oppressive silence stop abruptly. The rat began to dance. "He won't stop until I let him. He'd kill himself from exhaustion and hunger if I never told him to stop."

Dubhán, who had seen the curse used in much more cruel ways, found it comical and he didn't bother to wipe the bemused expression off his face. Besides, he was being watched.

"In a time of war being able to defend yourself against the Imperius Curse is often necessary. Any wizard or witch who would like to attempt to defend themselves today, may line up over _there_," Potter swished his wand and a line suddenly appeared on the floor in front of the Professor's desk. The rat was still dancing. "Being able to defend yourself will go towards your O.W.L's this year. It is the Ministry's attempt at enticing you to take your safety into your own hands."

It wasn't until Potter freed the rat from the curse that a line began to form. Students eyed the Stupefied rat cautiously as they waited nervously in line. It wasn't even half the students that lined up - mostly Gryffindor's. Dubhán admired their bravery even as he knew they were stupid idiots to _volunteer_ to be cursed. What was the good at practicing here? The stakes were hardly going to be the _same_ as they would be, if any one of these worthless wizard's and witches found themselves thrown in front of Voldemort. Besides, did any of them even _dream_ that the Death Eater's would _care_ enough about their willingness to use Imperio? They'd rather hear their screaming. They'd rather have them _aware_ of every minute that they were being tortured.

_'A well aimed wand works just as well as Imperio, mostly_,' Dubhán remembered a Death Eater saying.

"What's your name?" Potter asked the first idiot. It was a boy. A _Slytherin._ Dubhán watched as the boy tried to straighten himself.

"Eric," the boy said resolutely.

"Ready, Eric?" Potter asked, as he lifted his wand to aim at the boy.

"Yes."

_"Imperio_." The boy was no longer really there. Gone was the alertness from his hazel eyes. Gone was the purposeful posture. Gone was the careful grip on his wand.

"Give your wand to me," Potter said suggestively. The boy walked forward, but Remus was at his side in a moment, whispering words of warning. In the end, the boy physically pushed the Professor aside and handed his wand to Potter. Dubhán felt a wash of mild surprise wash through him. He had expected Potter to let the boy 'win'.

He watched as the other ten or so students each went. There was only one girl who managed to over-throw the curse. Potter handed her a card and she flushed bright red and walked away chanting: "oh Merlin, thank you, thank you, thank you." Dubhán tipped his head, not quite certain what the card had been. Perhaps he'd ask Potter later.

Meanwhile, Potter had walked back to the desk and freed the rat. It was fidgeting atop the desk again, squeaking. Dubhán knew what would be next. Potter would want this to appear as realistic as possible. He wouldn't want the students to be reminded that the rat was really a knut. Killing it would revert it. Obviously he would torture it first.

"As I said before, the Cruciatus Curse _is_ blockable, but Death Eater's often use this spell on defenseless wizards and witches or those who are too far injured to defend themselves. Don't count on being able to simply block it with a shield. It is called the 'torture curse' for a reason - it makes _every single nerve_ in your body feel pain."

Dubhán watched the rat, knowing it's impending doom far better than any of the fifteen year olds in the room. Most of them, he was certain, could hardly grasp what a medium amount of pain was, let alone the kind of pain that Crucio caused. Potter's gaze flickered back to him and for a moment their eyes connected.

"Professor Lupin, I will allow you to illustrate." Dubhán frowned. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Potter _didn't_ have it in him to torture. But the look Potter was pressing on him made the truth that Dubhán was trying to avoid plainly clear: Potter didn't want to torture the rat in front of him.

Remus stepped forward and a moment later there was a _shriek _that broke across the room. The whole of the class leaned back in their seats. The rat was twitching atop the table, it's tail crashing through the air as it's body curled and uncurled in fits of agony.

Even amongst the Slytherin's there was horror - in the widening of their eyes, the beat of their heart, the breathlessness of each of their chests, the tension in their bodies as they _willed_ themselves to appear unaffected. Dubhán watched them while they were too busy to be watching him. He knew better than to stare at the rat - he had never grown quite accustomed to seeing Crucio being used; perhaps because of his own ill after-effects or perhaps because Grandfather had been a bit like Potter about the curse. It was one of the reasons so many Death Eater's at the camp were 'fond' of him - they were less likely to be tortured in front of him.

Still, he knew that Remus hadn't meant it _enough_, because there was still some semblance of self-control in the rat's movements when he chanced a glance. When there was enough _meaning_ behind the curse it made people go mostly still, their bodies _twitching_ - their lunges screaming until their bodies _unwillingly_ forced in air to begin the whole process again.

Potter was talking now, his voice bellowing over the rat's screeches. Dubhán allowed his own thoughts to pause.

"Does that give you a small idea of what it means to be put under the Cruciatus Curse? If held under the curse for long enough the effects stop being temporary and become permanent. Brain damage, coma, seizures - these can all be induced by the curse. Every person's limits are different - for one person it may only take two minutes to become permanently injured by the curse, for another it may take hours. Do not leave here thinking that you can control the outcome of this curse."

Dubhán looked at the rat for a moment, finally allowed peace from the torture, and knew Remus hadn't meant it enough. If he meant it enough, the rat (which surely had very little mental guard), would be perfectly still now - _gone_. Gone like him, into the darkness. There would be no sharpness to save this rat. No lurking wolf. No second chance. His heart was slamming against his chest and he tried to look away. He had never had quite this reaction to witnessing the curse before and he scrambled mentally as he tried to piece together why he was feeling _now. _

"That wasn't half as painful as it should have been," he said, unable to stop the thought from becoming _real_. "You have to _mean _it. You didn't. You didn't mean it much at all."

He hadn't meant it.

It was odd that it would bother Dubhán so much that someone hadn't_ meant it_, except that he felt, rather then reasoned, that there was a connection between Remus not _meaning it_ and Dubhán being _allowed to feel_.

His thoughts were in too much of a jumble for him to piece it together logically and so he was stuck as he felt Emma must be stuck - knowing but not knowing. Feeling but not being able to express. Looking a child.

The Slytherin's eyes were back on him, but he would not allow himself to look away. Would the worry in his eyes make Grandfather rush to his rescue?

"Devlin brings up a good point," Potter says, his voice illustrating his hesitation and his _realization_, even as his eyes flicker back to the class, as firm and professional as before. The wave of whispers that had erupted after Dubhán's words came to an abrupt stop. "The Unforgivable's are not a bunch of curses you can simply _say_ and expect to happen. You have to _mean_ them. With Crucio you have to _want_ the recipient to be _tortured_. With Imperio you have to _want_ to take control of another person. With the killing curse...you have to want them dead."

Potter took a breath to look at them all, his eyes flickering for a brief second to him again.

"Magically speaking a 'want' needed to cast a spell is far different than a 'want' you might have in your daily life. It is not only a conscious effort that is needed - your magic must align with this want which means you must be on the verge of feeling it as a _need_. Wanting to hurt someone and feeling as if you _need_ to hurt someone is very different. As one of my teachers once said: you could probably all stand up, point your wands at me, and say "Avada Kedavra" and nothing would happen."

The rat has fallen still, wavering on it's own feet. Drooping. Only half there. Dubhán watched it sway.

"Which brings us to the next curse," Potter began and Dubhán felt something pulse in his chest that soon this would be over. "The Killing Curse is by far the most infamous of the Unforgivable's. There is no way to block the curse or _save yourself_ from dying, unless you have time to dodge it or use a non-magical shield. Keep in mind that it reduces most inanimate things to ash. There is only one known way to survive the curse and it has nothing to do with yourself. While _you_ cannot save yourself, someone else could. When I was a baby my mother refused to step aside and allow my death and instead offered herself in my place. When Voldemort turned his wand on me, that protection was now with me, in my blood."

The class had gone hush. Even the Slytherin's were attentive. Dubhán didn't really need to listen - he's heard the story before from someone probably much more aware that night. Dubhán wondered briefly if Potter knew _why_ Lily Potter had been given the chance to step aside.

Potter lifted his wand to the rat. Dubhán held his breath, watching.

"Avada Kedavra," Potter said, softly but firmly. The rat fell dead - _gone_.

"That is the Killing Curse. There is nothing spectacular about its appearance. The only significant thing about it is that it kills without symptom - leaving behind an apparently unwounded 'healthy' corpse. To preform this curse you must _want_ to kill. Not mean to kill, but want it. There are wizard's and witches, like myself, that have learned to trick their magic into interpreting a 'need to do it' as a 'want', but this is not typical."

There was silence. Potter turned to Remus. Dubhán kept his eyes on the dead rat, watching as it shifted back to a knut which he thought it was probably happier as.

"How are we doing on time, Remus?"

"We have ten more minutes."

"Ah, great," he looked to the class again. "We have ten more minutes. You may raise your hand if you have a question."

When the questions had ended and the students had filed out, Dubhán had felt a sense of relief that he was to realize a moment later was premature.

"One more to go, eh?" Potter was saying to Remus, his voice now not so serious as weary. Dubhán's eyes snapped to him and even though Potter's head was turned away, he must have felt Dubhán's rapid realization, because he turned. There was concern in those bright green eyes.

"You alright, Devlin?" He asked with care, his voice soft, his eyes full of love, his hands hiding the knut away in his pocket. "If this is-" he fumbled for words, gesturing "if you think you need to go home, I can see if your mum can call out of work for a little..."

His lips twitched with the entrapment of the question.

"I'm fine," he said, unwilling to show his weakness to Potter so easily.

"You could go read in Remus' office or something..." Potter offered, seeming to become aware of the fact that his last offer was lacking.

"I'm fine," he said again. _That's what your father says, but over the years I've come to know its true translation. _

"Yeah, alright," Potter said at last, shrugging in half-defeat and half-misery.

"I'm not a baby," he said, anger at Potter's easy defeat spurring something in him that he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to lash out at Potter more than the lady and he wasn't sure why quite yet. Potter frowned with confusion. "I've seen it before. A little rat dancing a jig, squeaking, and dying isn't going to make me cry and I certainly don't need to be picked up by my _mum_ like a toddler!"

Potter frowned softly, his head tilting. His face was a mix of surprise and failure that Dubhán couldn't quite understand.

"I wasn't worried about the curses," Potter said, his voice oddly _strong_ and _convincing_ as he waved his hand dismissively - with what Dubhán was mostly convinced was false bravado spurred on by a complete lie. "I didn't know what you felt about being around the crowds."

Dubhán wanted to respond, but the door suddenly opened and a new class began to trickle into the room. Potter took a gallon from his pocket this time.

**Upcoming: It was a creature, as dark as night, as thin as a skeleton, and with wide leathery wings. It stared at him through obsidian eyes. It's breath was cool against his skin as it breathed onto him. It had the form of a horse and the looks of a reptile. **

**What did you think? Please tell me! It only takes a moment to review but it means the world to me. :) **

**Hoping you enjoyed it, **

**GingeredTea **


	13. The Archives at the Hogwarts Library

Dubhán had never seen a house elf before. Grandfather had never allowed him. 'They're not right in the head,' he had said once. To Dubhán this seemed a perfect description. The elf that Remus called to serve them in his office was wearing a whole outfit that appeared to have been knit.

"Good afternoon, Dobby," Remus said kindly to the elf. "I know you are probably busy making lunch for the school, but would you mind wrapping something up for Devlin? He didn't get to have breakfast before coming here with Harry."

The tennis ball sized eyes turned to him and the big ears that adorned the sides of the creatures face began to flap in what Dubhán _suspected_ (but could not be sure) was excitement.

"Oh, Dobby is remembering little Devlin! Dumbledore is telling Dobby that the boy is safe with Harry Potter again! Dobby is crying when he heard the news. Happy tears!"

He spoke like a half-drugged half-tortured man. Dubhán tipped his head a bit with concentration - watching the tiny thing. It took a breath.

"Dobby would be so happy to be getting Devlin food! Dobby has something special - the new Professor has taught the house elves how to make!" He popped his fingers and was gone. Harry and Remus went back to speaking about nothing at all until, moments later, the elf was back with two neatly wrapped packages.

"This one first," Dobby said, "then the special sweet thing."

Dubhán took the packages from the tiny animal, marveling at it's magic as their fingers touched. For a moment the elf's face crumbled and a worried line grew between it's eyes, but then it seemed to shake itself.

The first package was a sandwich. The smell of rare beef wafted up from between the whole sweet smelling bread. Devlin looked up at the little creature, surprised. His wolf was salivating, having dealt with the ladies well-cooked meals for so long.

"Dobby is thinking that little Mr. Potter is liking his food the same way as Professor Lupin..." There was a worry in the elf's voice, as if it might be the end of the world if he had thought wrong. Dubhán nodded and took a bite.

"Thank you, Dobby," Potter said and then he motioned for Dubhán to follow him into the hallway. Dubhán put the second item into his pocket and walked after Potter, munching as he went.

Unlike when they had first arrived the halls were dotted with students coming and going from lunch, or simply mingling in the halls. Potter was getting looks like he had when they had gone to Diagon Alley. Dubhán could smell his uneasiness.

"You don't like crowds," Dubhán remarked as he followed along, eying them all.

"Not that much," Potter said.

A group of girls giggled as they passed. For a moment Dubhán thought they were talking about Potter, which was fine with Dubhán, but then he realized that it was _him_ they were referring to as _adorable._ He felt a scowl spread across his features. One of them, at least, looked mildly disturbed at the express. He grinned haughtily at her and she flinched back.

"Sorry about that," Potter said sympathetically.

"Is this why you like the Muggle's so much?" Dubhán asked. He felt uncomfortable and flushed at the girls comments. The only female he was familiar with was Bellatrix and he knew, under his skin, that her fascination with him was _more_ than it should be. She was enamored by Voldemort and he knew, not because he had reasoned it out, but because she had made it plainly clear, that her fascination with him lay in his resemblance to his grandfather.

"You donno, I might be famous there too," Potter said, flashing a smile.

Dubhán knew it wasn't so - no one knew the name 'Harry Potter' in the Muggle world. Muggle's didn't know much at all. Like that they had been Obliviated. Or not to scream. Or that a large stick was no defense against a small wand. Or that hiding behind counters wouldn't save you.

But he didn't hate them, not like Grandfather. They were just useless, but not all things without a use had to be tossed in the rubbish bin. Grandfather was like his office - everything in it had a purpose and a place, or it wasn't there at all. Dubhán was always too curious to throw away every impractical thing.

Still, he wouldn't leave anything important to a Muggle - like someone else's safety.

OoOoOoO

It was obvious from Potter's expression that he had believed the pitch would be empty. Instead there was a row of children all lined up next to their brooms. A red-headed women jumped when she saw Potter and waved enthusiastically.

"Harry!" She shouted, waving eagerly.

"Hey Gin!" Potter shouted back.

Potter led him closer to the women until they were standing a foot away from her.

"I didn't mean to interrupt, I thought the pitch would be empty." He scratched at the back of his head, the way he did when the lady was upset with him at the house. Dubhán watched him, because this gesture seemed to engender him to others.

"It's alright. Hey Devlin," she said, looking at him. He narrowed his eyes, studying her face. It was hard to recognize her, but looking past her perky, undirty, untired face, he recognized her as the women that had been at the table with his mother when he had written his potion down.

"Hello," he said, silky and polite, but with that edge that clearly distanced him from her and made it clear he didn't prefer her company.

"I'm Ginny Weasley," she said proudly, "Incase you didn't remember."

Definitely didn't prefer her company. Grandfather did not like the Weasley's, although Draco liked them less. He quirked his lips in a customary smile, thinly veiled distaste hopefully visible as well.

"Oh, I know you," he said, his voice perfectly polite even as he hoped his posture screamed that she was far below _him_.

He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes and waited with impatient triumph for her to look away - to _react_ - but she didn't. She smiled.

"If Harry says it's okay, I'll let you join the firsties for their flying lesson," she said sweetly, bending down to look him in the eye. _Making sure he knew he hadn't gotten to her_. He clenched one of his fists, but demanded his lips into a smile.

"Oh please, that would be so much fun," he drawled. Potter was looking at him nervously from the corner of his eye. Ginny looked partly _amused_ which irked Dubhán more.

"That's fine, Ginny," he said, but his voice sounded the tiniest bit uncertain. Dubhán couldn't decide if he should feel a flush of anger at the fact that Potter _didn't trust him_ or a flutter of success, because he had worked so hard at the beginning to make Potter fear him. He fingered his wand and tried to convince himself that playing good had been just that - a ploy to get Potter's confidence so he could get his wand back. He hadn't _really_ been seeking Potter's trust. He _hadn't_. "Do you want to, Devlin?"

Now Potter was at his level, crouching down and extending a hand to touch his shoulder. Dubhán pulled away, Potter tried not to look hurt, but the emotion swam into his eyes, joining the flashes of uncertainty, love, and worry that were already there.

"Fine," he said, more eager to get away from Potter and Weasley than in the flying. Potter nodded and pulled a shrunken broom out of his pocket. He unshrunk it and handed it to him.

"Alright class, Harry Potter is going to watch our lesson! Isn't that exciting?"

There were cries of "Yes Miss Weasley!" followed but some whoops that clearly came from wizarding children.

When everyone had quieted down, a single boy's hand shot into the air. He had umber brown hair and brown eyes and freckles smattered across his cheeks and he reminded Dubhán of someone else.

"Yes, David?" Weasley asked, kindly. His cheeks were flushed and he toed at the ground, nervous.

"Who is Harry Potter?"

There were jeers and jabs and cries of disbelief. The boy flushed more.

"He's Head Auror!" Another student finally piped up. Another two nodded.

"The Wizarding Hero!"

It quieted down.

"But what is an Auror?" The same boy asked, looking curious even as embarrassment covered his features.

The other children all looked at each other.

The boy had umber brown hair and brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and he reminded Dubhán of someone else. Someone he hadn't been especially nice too. The boy he reminded him of had been Muggle too, although obviously this boy had magic. When Dubhán was reminded like this, he often spoke before thinking - such was one of those times. He'd kick himself later.

"It's like a cop," he said, enough for his voice to carry. The rest of the students frowned in puzzlement, but recognition dawned in the umber-haired, brown-eyed, freckled boy's eyes.

"Oi! Cool!" The boy cheered. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter!" He said, his face now flush with excitement. "I wanted to be a cop before the owl came!"

Potter smiled but Dubhán frowned, because there was nothing particularly exciting about muggle cops, in his opinion. They were useless.

He lined up with the other students, his broom on the ground next to him, his hand hovering in the air.

"Alright, now in a firm voice, say "UP"," Weasley said, her voice carrying across the field. Potter's eyes were locked on his body, watching his every movement.

"Up," he called, his voice blending with the chorus of the same word. Some brooms wobbled on the ground, some brooms floated into hands reluctantly, other's with a pleasant buzz, but Dubhán's broom shot into his hand with such force that he wobbled on his feet. It vibrated, humming audibly.

"You have a good grasp on your magic," Weasley commented kindly, just as she had done to every other student. She paused to look at his broom for a moment longer while he formed his response.

"Magical things understand me," he said finally. She smiled encouragingly at him.

"Perhaps, Mr. Potter, it is _you_ who understands magical things," she said casually as she moved to the next student in line. Dubhán frowned, puzzling through her words.

OoOoOoO

"Hagrid!"

When Potter had claimed Emma would be scandalized that they might see Hagrid and she wouldn't today, Dubhán had pictured a handsome, charming, charismatic man. Not this.

He towered above Potter. Dubhán was especially aware that this lumbering figure could have lifted him in the air by his foot effortlessly and proceeded to pull him apart limb by limb without breaking a sweat.

Why Potter was walking towards him, further into the forest (and away from witnesses), with a _smile_ was beyond Dubhán. Obviously Potter was as much an idiot as Voldemort had ever claimed. Dubhán, for himself, stayed rooted to his spot at the edge of the forest (the _Forbidden _Forest_!). _

_The only thing Giants are good for is chaos - they're too stupid to follow direct orders._

"Is that yeh, Harry?" Hagrid called out, his voice as big as his form. He turned around slowly, to face them. He was in a shallow clearing, laying down hunks of meat. "I'm jus' feedin' the horses."

Potter seemed to become aware that he hadn't followed him. He paused, turned to look over his shoulder, and motioned for him.

Dubhán shook his head. He might be a fool - Grandfather had often claimed that enough, and sometimes Dubhán even prayed that he was a bit of one - but he was _not_ an idiot. He took a deep breath.

"Devlin, come here. I want you to meet Hagrid."

He shook his head firmly, trying to tell Potter, through his eyes, that he _didn't want to be here_, but Potter simply laughed and began to come towards him.

It was then that something _touched him _from behind. He spun around, his wand already in his fingers, a curse already on his tongue.

It was a _creature_, as dark as night, as thin as a skeleton, with wide leathery _wings_. It stared at him through obsidian eyes. It's breath was cool against his skin as it breathed onto him. It had the form of a horse and the looks of a reptile.

"Fuck," Potter said abruptly, but Dubhán wasn't listening. All his attention was captivated by the creatures gaze. He felt as if he were in a trance. "Just stand still, Devlin!"

Like it's breath, it's magic was cool - not cold, not warm, but something inbetween. It was neither dark no light magic, but a shade of grey Dubhán had never encountered before. There was something in it's eyes that looked at him as though it _knew_ what he was, and it made Dubhán shiver.

But there was also something kind in the acknowledgement of what he was. It didn't flinch away from him but instead seemed to _understand_ and he found himself reaching out a hand. He heard Hagrid's booming voice saying "I'm not sure I'd be doin' that" and Potter calling out to him.

His hand connected with it's boney forehead, expecting the feel of leather and surprised to feel fur that could not be seen. It breathed again, sending a puff of cool air onto his forearm. It's magic radiated off of it, kind and gentle and _understanding_ in way Dubhán had never felt magic be before.

When Potter came up beside him the creature fidgeted on it's feet, the trance between them broken. It ruffled it's leather wings and puffed out a nervous snort of cool air.

"It's alright, Devlin," Potter was saying, with the quietness of a man who is afraid. Dubhán turned to him, once more baffled by the fear that crept so easily into those killing curse green eyes. Fear consumed Voldemort, but it never showed. Many things consumed Potter and they _all_ showed.

"I wasn't afraid," he said firmly and to show he meant it he reached out again to the creature, who calmed under his hand. "Animals don't scare me. They understand me. I can make them do things, if I want too."

Something dark flickered across Potter's eyes - an ugly cloud of something more potent than his earlier fear, and it made Dubhán look away, feeling hurt despite not understanding its appearance.

"Tenebrus here seems ter like yeh," the giant man said, his voice gruff and unrefined. Dubhán looked up at him, feeling the creatures comfort and taking a cue from it.

"He's very handsome," Dubhán said, honestly. There was no reason to be rude when speaking about something so amazing as a magical creature. He wasn't stupid enough to lie, especially in front of the creature. It would understand. It nudged at his hand, begging for more attention.

The giant man nodded.

"Yeh seem to be good with him," he added, motioning to the creature. "Do you know anything about Thestrals?"

Dubhán felt his heart stop for a moment. His hand stopped caressing the creatures neck. It snorted unhappily.

Thestrals.

Something one only saw if they had seen _death_.

"Yes. But I didn't know what they looked like."

If he had known he would have pretended to be unable to see it.

Now Potter's fear made sense, at the same time that it made even less sense. Potter feared the implications of him having seen someone die. Potter feared him being _tainted_. Feared him being _dark_. Feared him not being his _little boy_.

But why fear?

Dubhán had expected hate. Malfoy had made it plainly clear what Potter thought of people like him. Then again, Malfoy was a bastard. Geoffrey's words crept into his mind.

_This is where you belong. _

Was it possible that Potter wouldn't hate him?

He glanced at the killing curse eyes again, remembering the man's words from the night of his almost-escape. _I could never hate you. _

His lips felt suddenly chapped and his hand stilled on the creature's neck.

For a moment he felt compelled to tell Potter _everything_, but then that feeling was swept away by the knowledge that _he would know_ and Dubhán knew what happened to traitors.

Hagrid was rambling on about the creature, but Dubhán wasn't listening. Potter was staring at him, that fear and concern and _curiosity_ still lighting up his eyes. It wasn't until Potter began to tug on his arm that Dubhán realized Potter had excused them.

"Are we flooing back, now?" He asked as he followed Potter back to the castle.

"Two more things to do," he said and there was a firmness to his strides. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders set - he looked like a man on a mission. He led Dubhán through the Great Hall and down into the coolness of the castles dungeons.

"Where are we going?" He asked cautiously. This far down there were snacks carved into the stones, wriggling with magic.

"To get something," Potter said cryptically, without turning around. "Alex wants it," he added.

It was a plain door that they arrived at, thick and dark with an iron handle. Potter stepped in front of it and tapped it with his wand. A flame-red bird appeared for a moment on the knob and a moment later the door was pulled open. It was Severus Snape on the other side.

"Potter," Snape drawled, looking him up and down with clear distain. Then suddenly his eyes fell past Potter onto him, and he frowned. "Abusing the system, are you Potter?" He sneered, a comment Dubhán did not quite understand. "This obviously can't be much of a business meeting with the boy here..."

"In the long run, perhaps you will feel differently," Potter returned, just as cryptically. "I'm here on Alexandra's behalf."

Snape's brow twitched but he stepped away from the door to allow them entrance.

"Take a seat," Snape said, motioning to a sofa and two sets of chairs. Potter sat himself on the sofa and Dubhán sat himself on a chair. Severus eyed them both and claimed the other chair. "Explain yourself quickly, Potter. I have potions brewing that I suspect are far more entertaining than whatever drivel you have to say."

"Alex and I want Devlin to have Occlumency lessons. Alex wants _you_ to be the one to teach him."

Dubhán felt his heart slam unrhythmically against his ribcage. He stood abruptly, mutely shaking his head. Horrified. Scared. Terrorized.

His blood was rushing through his body like a cold river, making him shiver. He wanted to run, but he was frozen. Snape's eyes were on him in an instant. The man rose from his chair in a fluid ominous motion and stalked off to another room. For a moment Dubhán thought that was it - he had clearly refused, but then he came back, a potion vial in his hands.

"Drink," he commanded, holding the tiny bottle out to him.

Dubhán shook his head fervently. Snape leaned close to him.

"You are going to have a seizure. Which would you prefer, a calming draught or the embarrassment of falling on my living room floor unconscious and letting me hear you scream?"

He grabbed the vial from the traitor and swallowed it with practiced ease.

"I never scream," he said, after the foul taste had all but left his mouth.

Snape's regard flickered with curiosity for a moment and he looked to Potter as if seeking confirmation.

"Not the one time he had a seizure with us," he said, nodding.

"Why not have the boys mother teach him - or...the famous Harry Potter..."

"Alexandra said she couldn't do that," their was a firmness in his voice that Dubhán recognized as the same one Geoffrey used with the other Death Eaters to silently say: _don't question me about this in front of the boy. _He wasn't surprised that Snape seemed to understand the silent command, but rather that he seemed to allow the command. "And are you sure you haven't inhaled too many potion fumes today? I never thought I'd see the day that you'd forget how thoroughly I suck at Occlumency in any traditional fashion," Potter added, laughing cynically.

"I never forget what makes you a dunderhead, Mr. Potter. In fact they are some of my most treasured thoughts. That and the dog chasing you up the tree. I do attempt at every chance to make you as thoroughly unable to forget as myself." There was a sense of practice to this exchange that didn't escape Dubhán. For Potter it seemed to be almost entertaining, but for Snape - Dubhán could see the true distain in his eyes for Potter.

"Such a shame you aren't as entertaining as you were when you were a student, Mr. Potter." Potter smiled charmingly, Severus sneered and Dubhán pondered on what lay between the two men to fuel such an exchange.

"Will you teach him?" Potter asked, breaking the momentary silence.

Snape stared at Potter hard for a long moment.

"I will give the child one lesson. In this first lesson he will prove he is capable. If instead he proves he is like you, the lessons will cease. I do not have time to instruct a dunderheaded child - I waste enough of my time with them during school hours."

Potter stared at him hard for a moment, then shifted his gaze to regard him momentarily - as if summing up the possibility of this 'bet' falling through.

"I think that will be fine. What will he need to demonstrate to prove that he is capable."

Snape's eyebrow twitched and for a moment surprise flickered onto his features.

"Don't tell me the famous Harry Potter actually thinks before he agrees these days," he drawled sarcastically.

Potter flashed him a smile.

"I'm not a boy anymore, Severus."

"And you are not my friend. We have spoken at length about your desire to use my first name."

"Yes we have, but talk doesn't always change things. You may think of me as you will and call me what you like." Potter shrugged. "Now, what would he need to prove?"

"That he is capable."

Potter waved his hand dismissively.

Dubhán looked between them, trying to catch every word and every reaction. He needed to understand what was happening. He fought the drowsiness that the calming draught brought.

"We already know he is capable," Potter said, casually. He must not have been thinking, because just as Dubhán's eyes snapped to his green, Potter's green snapped to his own. _Where would Potter get that idea?_

Snape's regard was on the both of them.

"He has to be able to clear his mind. The one thing you have never been able to achieve."

Potter's eyes were still on him, but he nodded at Snape's words before finally disentangling their regards.

_Where would Potter get that idea? What would make Potter so certain? _

"Agreed," he said as his eyes connected with Snape's. He rose from his chair and motioned for him to do the same. For a moment Dubhán stayed where he was, a strange, potent, concoction of emotions boiling inside of him. When had _he _agreed? Hadn't Potter said he was done being used?

But then he stood, because there was no reason for the infamous traitor to know that he in _anyway_ cared that Potter had lied. It was in the dark hallway, with the snakes slithering across the stones, that he froze.

"You lied," he said to Potter's back, as he walked away, not yet noticing that he wasn't following. The words stung the tip of his tongue. He had _almost_ believed the man. Potter froze mid-step and turned around slowly, with a look of confusion on his face.

"What?" Potter asked. Dubhán kept his gaze firmly on a spot just past Potter's shoulder.

"You lied. You said you meant what you said in Dumbledore's office."

"I did."

He looked slowly back at Potter, whose brow was crumpled in confusion.

"Obviously not. When did I agree to this?"

Suddenly the confusion was gone from Potter's eyes. Relief flooded his features even as weariness crept in after it. Potter was by his side in an instant, on his _knees_, his hands hovering above Dubhán's chest like he wanted to embrace him, but was holding himself back.

"I meant what I said, Devlin. You're done being used for _anything_. This isn't me using you. This is me making damn sure _no one else _**_ever _**_will_." His voice was far from a plea, but everything about his body was. "I won't have anyone controlling you like you feel he controls you. Don't you understand I am trying to help?"

He understood. Perhaps not as much as Potter wished he would since he could not understand all the emotions swimming in Potter's eyes, but he did understand. He no longer believed they meant to kill him. If he thought hard enough and breathed deeply he could _almost_ convince himself that Potter wouldn't hate him for what he was, even.

He understood more of it than Potter, it seemed.

"There is nothing to be helped," Dubhán said, more firmly. Potter didn't understand. Dubhán was who he was and there was no turning back. "Don't you understand? I'll never be what you want."

He wanted to finish by telling Potter that he should just send him back, but this was the first day that his wand was in his grasp and he hadn't yet figured out how to keep Emma safe.

Potter swallowed and looked away. Dubhán felt a bubble of triumph at the mere possibility that he had made Potter understand. Even if Potter wouldn't send him back, just the idea that Potter knew he could never _have him_ made him feel safer than he had in a long time.

"I don't expect you to understand this, Devlin. I don't know why Voldemort wanted you alive - I hope some day that you will tell me - but I know it was after he knew you. But me? I wanted you more than anything even before I knew you. I loved you from the moment your mum told me there was the _possibility_ you existed. I loved you before I could _see you_. I loved you before you could hold your own head up. I _wanted you_ even when all you could do was stare blankly at my face. I _wanted you_ even when you grew bigger and threw _fits_ that sometimes felt like they would make my head explode. I _wanted you_ even when you lit my work papers on fire, made your plate of food explode, told me you _hated me_. When you hit your sister - I still wanted you. When you broke the w-" but Potter didn't finish his sentence, he shook his head. "There is nothing you could do to make me hate you, Devlin. I want you more than Voldemort ever could."

Dubhán was pretty certain he knew what he had been about to say and the mere hint at it made him feel as if the hallway was getting smaller by the second.

He tried to shake himself. He wouldn't think about that.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think. Just do what has to be done. _

_"_You could hate me, I promise," he said, just as he had said that night.

Potter frowned.

"No, I couldn't. But even if I could hate you, I would still love you and still want you."

Dubhán wanted to say that was impossible, but he shut his jaw with a click. Wasn't it entirely possible to hate something even as you clung to it? Hadn't he been hating Potter this whole time, but clinging to the ghost of his memory, regardless? Hadn't he cursed the lady more than once but cried out for her while he felt the unfairness of it all at the camp?

Hadn't he sometimes hated that it had been him and not Emma, but been adamant that it _would never be her?_

He hated Potter, but it wasn't the only thing he felt for the man.

"You said we had to do two things," he said after a moment. Potter nodded, accepting and acknowledging his change of topic.

"Yes, I need to drop some papers off with Hermione," he said, rising to his feet.

"And where will we find her?"

"If I know anything about Hermione we'll find her in the Library since it-" he glanced at a time piece in his pocket "-is her break."

The Hogwarts Library.

It was almost enough to make him forget about the Hate/Love/Want discussion.

"Alright," he said and they fell into step together, each trying to shrug off the uncomfortable silence that now surrounded them.

The Library was behind two double doors, one of which was propped open. Inside the tables were filled with students reading quietly or chatting in whispers with friends. Dubhán felt mesmerized, enough that it must have shown on his face.

"Do you really love reading that much?" Potter asked, humor and a bit of weariness in his voice.

"Yes. I like to get lost in books," he said, taking his first step into _the Hogwarts Library_.

"Well then...welcome to Heaven, I suppose."

Potter gestured playfully at the Library with a wide dramatic sweep of his arms. Dubhán looked at him and glared - for some reason that made Potter snigger.

"Already embarrassed to be seen with me?"

"Embarrassed hardly covers what I feel about being with you," he said quietly, hoping the man would take a clue.

"Auror Potter!" A young man called out, coming over.

"Hello Grant," Potter greeted, shaking the boys hands. "I just saw your dad this morning. How shall I tell him you're doing? He complains daily you do not write home enough, you know."

"Aw, it's just so busy here, Auror Potter. I'm alright. We have exams coming up, you know..."

"Yeah, I figure. I'll tell him you've got your head buried in a book then..."

"Oh really? You'd do that? Thanks, Auror Potter! I've managed not to get any detentions this year, so far."

Potter laughed.

"And that is a miracle." The boy nodded. "Say, have you seen Professor Granger?"

"Oh yeah, she's over there with the firsties," the boy said, motioning to a rather large table.

"Thanks, Grant," Potter said and motioned him over. Grant gave him a surprised look before sending him a wave on his way out of the Library. Dubhán ignored him.

Potter snuck up on Hermione and her quiet studious looking group. She was talking about an assignment that sounded an awful lot like Potions homework.

"-you to go over the different kind of Slugs, right?"

The group nodded. Potter lifted a finger to his lip to keep everyone quiet. He crossed his arms lazily, standing right behind Hermione.

"Can anyone guess what Potion he's working you up too?"

No one answered. Some slunk lower in their chairs.

"There are a lot of potions that use slugs," a girl said, perking up. "How should we know which one he wants to teach us? He's not very forward."

"He's also been having us study stirring patterns," a boy said, sounding like he was complaining.

"Yes, I do see that. He assigned an essay, correct?"

"Yes," said a chorus of voices.

"We'll look at the parameters he wants you to follow for the essay in just a moment. First, Mr. Potter obviously wants to talk to me."

Hermione turned around to smile sweetly at Potter, who grinned.

"Hey, Hermione!"

"Hello, Harry," she said. Her eyes flickered to Dubhán and she sent him a smile.

"Do you think I could borrow you a moment after you're done here?"

"Yes, we have fifteen more minutes left." Potter nodded and stepped back to lean against a bookshelf end.

"Excuse me?" Dubhán said, tugging on Potter's robe. Green eyes shot down to meet his own. "Am I allowed to look around?"

Potter seemed to go over it for a moment. He pulled out a piece of parchment from his robe.

"Yeah, go for it. I'll know if you stray too far though. No going through _any_ doors."

He nodded.

It wasn't intentional that he found himself in the isle over which a sign reading: 'Daily Prophet Achieve' hung, but it was with the beginnings of a purpose that he paused there. He ran his finger across the spines of the bound newspapers '1994-1995' '1997-1998'.

He paused, feeling a creeping sensation up his spine. One more book and then it would be _the year_.

'_We've discussed this before. You're father isn't looking for you. He gave up.' _

But had he?

It was a traitorous thought and Dubhán knew he should wipe it from his mind _right now_, but instead his foot lifted and his hand dragged across another book. 1999-2000.

He would have been four and five that year, probably playing in _that room_ with no idea what was about to happen.

Another step. Another bump as his finger dragged to the next book.

2000-2001

He felt his heart beating hard but steady, so that he could hear his own pulse in his ears and feel the blood pounding throughout his body.

He knew he shouldn't.

But knowing he shouldn't, hadn't always stopped him.

Potter thought he coward in fear from Voldemort, but Potter hardly knew him. Geoffrey thought he sometimes purposefully tested Voldemort's limits, but Dubhán thought Geoffrey wasn't half as aware as he thought he was.

Dubhán's heart thrummed as he lifted the book off the shelf, a subconscious reminder that he had better _want this badly enough _to be willing to settle for the consiquences.

Sometimes there were things that _just had to be done_ and this was one of them.

_Had Potter really given up? _

'_I punish anyone who dares to raise their want against you - Potter has never laid a finger on Malfoy in your revenge. He was there that night, wasn't he child? Does he not know who took you? Does he not know who to punish?'_

Dubhán lugged the heavy book over to a table. He could see Potter from here, but he was busy talking to Hermione now as the first years read quietly.

If it were important it would be on the first page. Potter and Grandfather were always on the first page.

He was rewarded with Potter's face. He was dressed in his Auror robes and sat atop his shoulders was a little boy, grinning delicately. It was a staged photograph.

_If you don't want them sneaking up on us all the time, honey, then you have to give them something better than an angry Harry that they manage to sneak up on. _

The memory came with the lady's voice, softer and sweeter than she ever spoke with him now. Somehow he thinks it would be hard for him to be in the room with her, if she spoke that way to him. He wasn't six anymore, after all.

**_Harry Potter's son kidnapped!_**

He'd been expecting that. This had nothing to do with Potter - reporters would have reported it regardless, right?

Then, three weeks later, there was another picture of him with Potter _and_ Alexandra, Hermione, Sirius, Ron, and Remus. Except he isn't on Potter's shoulders, smiling. He isn't smiling at all and neither are the others. No one looks aware that they are being photographed, but least of all him, because he is laying down, his eyes closed, his lips pale - _dead_. He's in a casket, floating above a _hole_. His favorite teddy clutched in his arms.

**DEVLIN POTTER'S FUNERAL HELD AT GODRIC'S HALLOW TODAY**

_Devlin Potter, kidnapped by You-Know-Who almost three weeks ago, is now confirmed dead. The body was portkeyed into the Ministry, not only rising alarms about the child's death, but also about the Ministry's security. Before the press could arrive, the body had been taken away, but eyewitnesses say it was 'badly bruised' and another eyewitness claims: 'he had bruises on his arms and legs, like he'd been held prisoner' and that he was half-starved. It is assumed that he was brutally tortured to death._

_He was buried today in Godric's Hallow next to his grandparents. Harry Potter remains out of the office and unwilling to speak…_

He felt his whole body heave with the impossibility of what he had just read.

_Dead?_

Potter hadn't just _thought_ he was dead...he had believed he'd _known_.

His hands were shaking and his vision was swarming and it was with his last ounce of ability that he shut the book and shoved it back further on the table - away from him. He got up - if he didn't now he wasn't sure he ever would - and went to find Potter.

He was still talking to Hermione. He tugged on his robe, but all Potter did was murmur a quick 'hey there, Devlin. One sec, alright?'

But he didn't have one more second.

"I want to go home," he said softly. An infinitesimal look of surprise brushed by Potter's brow and lips. He turned and looked down at him.

"What did you say, Devlin?"

"I want to go home. _Now_."

Potter was still staring at him. Dubhán knew any moment the jittery feeling rushing across his skin could turn into something _worse_. He swayed on his feet and clung to Potter suddenly.

"Please," he whispered, hoping no one was seeing him.

_He not looking for you. _

Because he thought he was dead.

Potter nodded.

"Yeah, sure. I'll firecall you tonight, Hermione."

"Of course," she said. She peered at him for a moment. "Harry?"

Potter stopped mid-movement of turning around and Dubhán could almost curse the women.

"Do you want to use my fireplace? It's much closer than Dumbledore's."

Perhaps he wouldn't curse her after all.

UPCOMING:

They rushed toward the sound, only to find the Death Eater on the floor with his hands clutching at his head - looking as if someone were torturing him. Sirius paused in confusion, but Remus rushed forward. Whatever he might have felt about the Death Eater, Remus like Lily had never been able to watch anyone suffer. He grabbed for the man, hauling him onto the sofa and trying to pry his hands away from his head.

Please review!


	14. Unforgotten

**"Guest" this chapter is for you. :) Normally I'd wait to have another half a chapter written, but I felt a nice review deserved a nice update. Thank you so much! **

Potter may be gifted with magic, but he is horrendously lacking in any giftedness with the Floo network. Potter landed unceremoniously on the living room floor and Dubhán, normally able to keep himself _upright_ found himself on his hands and knees, head bent towards the ground.

For a moment his skin crawled and his neck ached with ghost-fingers gripping at his neck, dragging him through a camp. His stomach gave a twinge and his already raw nerves began to burn. A memory screeched inside of his skull making his mind pulse painfully.

"You alright, Devlin?" It was Potter's voice that stopped the reel of memories swirling inside of his head. Potter's voice that brought him back into the reality that wasn't much better.

Dead.

He felt sick just thinking of it.

"Devlin?" This time the voice propelled him to his feet. His world spun as his throat burned and his gut churned. Potter was looking at him, concern in his eyes. Concern for _him_.

Dead.

The newspaper picture swam before his eyes. Potter's mouth opened and his feet fidgeted and Dubhán raced away to avoid the truth that was coming suffocatingly close to him. His first instinct was to race up the stairs, into _the room_ and shut the door - applying copious amounts of locking charms behind him. But he faltered on the first step. The idea of _that room_ where _it_ had happened...

Suddenly he knew he wouldn't make it there anyway - he turned on his heel and rushed into the near bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He stared at the solid white wood for a moment, trying to will the inevitable sickness away, but found it was just as he suspected - inevitable. He lunged for the toilet, his mind morbidly stuck on the newspaper photograph and the rest of his body heaving in protest to the accompanying image and thoughts.

"Devlin?" It was _his_ voice, soft and worried and so _full of love_ that it made Dubhán's body heave even more.

_He's stopped looking for you._

_He's forgotten you. _

But he obviously hadn't. Everywhere one turned in this house, were reminders. All the pictures, _the room_, even some of Emma's more babyish toys still had 'Devlin Potter' inscribed on them. Yesterday he had dared to get close to the front door again and found, settled beside Emma's tiny pink boots, a pair of well-worn sneakers that he could still remember.

"Devlin, are you alright? Please let me in." The knob rattled, locked with the simple muggle lock that adorned all the doors in the house. He'd only figured out what they were for the day before yesterday.

He heaved again. The knob rattled some more.

_He's forgotten you. _

Like always the remembered words made anger well up in his stomach, but this time he felt a distinct difference in it's direction. He lifted his wand.

The knob rattled one more time before Potter (perhaps he should start calling him Harry) realized it was open.

"Devlin?"

He was next to him in a second. Dubhán chanced a glance, only for his body to feel sick again at all those emotions in the green orbs.

Dubhán had been sick before, with Grandfather. He half expected when Potter stood up for him to open the potion cabinet and withdraw a potion and force it down his throat to make this all stop. Instead, he grabbed a towel and wetted it under the tap, bringing it back to lay against the back of his neck.

"It's alright, Devlin," he said, his voice soft and soothing. He stood again and brought back another towel and wiped at his face. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Don't touch me, I didn't say you could," he said automatically, but his voice was broken and soft and for once the words came out as he always felt when he said them - apprehensive.

"Alright," he said, just as softly, his hands drifting away and making Dubhán regret the automatic response for a moment.

He grabbed for the toilet again, sick. Potter hovered near him and if what he had said before was automatic and typical, the next thing he said was decidedly _not_ typical.

"Don't leave me," he gasped out between whole-body heaves, in what felt like his bodies attempt to turn him inside out. His hand reached out, clasping onto Potter's shirt front.

For a moment Potter's face was entirely _blank_, then surprise flittered by - not like an unpleasant surprise, but like Dubhán imagined his face was like when he discovered how to use a wand.

_"Never ever,"_ he said, as if he actually understood what Dubhán had been thinking.

Dubhán nodded, feeling his insides righting themselves. Dubhán wondered if this was what it felt like to _calm down_, an order he had never been able to follow with his Grandfather in the room with him while he was sick.

"Can you tell me what happened? If it was the class-"

"No," he gasped out. He was appalled by the idea that Potter thought _watching_ curses would make him sick like this.

"Please tell me, Devlin. You're mum is going to think I made a huge mistake bringing you with me...please...tell me."

He wiped at his mouth with one of the towel's Potter had left. His head was pounding in that particular way that made him _know_ he'd be shaking in a moment. Potter's eyes were bright and shimmering with everything Dubhán couldn't understand.

"I saw it," he said quickly and more roughly than he had intended, all his focus on _staying there_. Potter's face was open and encouraging. "I saw the picture of me _dead_ - in the newspaper."

Potter's wide open face crumbled into closed-off darkness, except for his eyes - still alight with everything Dubhán was almost-certain he would never understand or feel himself.

"I didn't want you to know," Potter whispered hollowly as Dubhán felt that first convulsion crawl up his spine. He tried his best to ignore it in favor of regarding Potter - burning into his mind all those emotions that he couldn't understand but _were for him_. All his. Potter's hands were clenching into his thighs, crumpling his white Auror robes. Dubhán dug his fingers into the soft bathmat, trying to cling to the reality he could feel slipping away from him with every shiver running up his spine.

"Don't let me fall," he ground out suddenly - the same words he would have said to Geoffrey, the exact opposite to the silence he would have kept with Grandfather. Potter's eyes snapped up, alight with something _more_ now and even though Dubhán hadn't said he could, he reached out with his hands and drew him close.

"ALEX!"

The shout melted into the all-consuming fire that was rapidly spreading across his skin - seeping in deeper and deeper until it was in his blood, bones, and marrow. His skin was suddenly frigid, his marrow suddenly burning. He arched his back, every muscle in his body tensing and firing. There was no escaping the pain - it was there no matter how he moved.

Suddenly there was something grabbing him, making his skin alight with a wicked fire under the pressure. It was around his eyes, near his nose - **he couldn't breath****_! _**He gasped for air through his throat - daggers stabbing for having _dared to open his mouth_. **_Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream!_**

Cool liquid pooled in his throat and he swallowed instinctively, all the while thrashing away from the contact.

_Come here,_ the sharpness, that had long ago become a part of him, whispered. Cool mist was sinking into his mind, putting out the fire. He was in the meadow again, covered in droplets of cold mist. He shook the mist, and the fire it had quelled, off of himself. Beneath his paws was the grass and around him was the thick fog that always accompanied this place. Somehow he knew he was supposed to be a boy, but somehow he also knew he was the wolf.

_It's our turn now, _someone whispered and he couldn't be sure if it was the sharpness or himself - because here they were the same. In here, he was never completely the wolf or the boy, but an odd mixture of them both.

oOoOoOo

Sirius grabbed for his wand, his coffee spilling onto his lap as he rushed to his feet. Remus, over by the stove pantry, did the same.

Screaming.

They rushed toward the sound, only to find the Death Eater on the floor with his hands clutching at his head - looking as if someone were torturing him. Sirius paused in confusion, but Remus rushed forward. Whatever he might have felt about the Death Eater, Remus like Lily had never been able to watch anyone suffer. He grabbed for the man, hauling him onto the sofa and trying to pry his hands away from his head.

"What is wrong?" He shouted at the man, but he simply continued to scream, body shaking, breathing only when his lungs had emptied enough to force his body to draw in more air. "WHAT IS WRONG?"

"Finite Incantatem!" Sirius shouted, leaping forward. But it had no effect.

Then suddenly, the Death Eater stopped screaming and lay perfectly still. A few tense minutes later, he opened his eyes. They were blood-shot and amber.

"What the fuck was that all about?" Sirius shouted, his wand still aimed, his stance tense and annoyed - because damn-it this Death Eater was annoying and he had _kept Devlin hostage_ (Sirius didn't care if it was really Voldemort...) and he didn't know why Harry wanted him kept alive (well he did but...).

The Death Eater sat bolt upright, his gaze still unfocused. He tried to stand.

"Dubhán," he whispered, looking around franticly. "Dubhán!"

Remus pushed at the Death Eater's chest, making him lay back down.

"Dubhán is with Harry," Remus said, using the name the Death Eater was most likely to recognize.

"He..." The Death Eater shook himself, rubbing at his skin. "Crucio."

He ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the scratch marks he must have dug into his scalp.

Remus frowned, but Sirius understood. Harry had described to him in detail the first day he had been reintroduced to Devlin.

An hour later the fireplace lit green and Harry's head poked through, finding them all sitting silently on one sofa. He frowned for a moment.

"It occurred to me that Geoffrey-"

"Totally fucking scared us half to death - yeah. How's Devlin?" Sirius blurted out, anxious to cut to the important part. Harry frowned.

"I think he's alright. He's...asleep...unconscious - I don't know. Is that normal?" He was speaking to the Death Eater now and Sirius reluctantly stood aside so they could see each other.

"Yes," the werewolf ground out, his voice still hoarse from all the screaming. "He tells me his wolf wakes him up," he added, shuddering. Potter nodded and without another word, he was gone.

Sirius paced and Remus sat silently and the Death Eater looked around the room still half-dazed.

"Are you hurting?" Remus asked softly after an hour or so.

"No," he said, still looking dazed.

OoOoOoO

"What did he say?"

Like always, noises were the first thing to penetrate the hazy thoughts. Physical sensation were still muted and unimportant - the fire was gone - and so it was with a passing sort of curiosity that he noted he was warm and something soft was wrapped around him. Smell was what always followed the noises. Parchment, vanilla, rocking chairs and kisses. He turned his cheek against the something soft and was rewarded with a _thump, thump, thump_ sound that seemed perfectly ordinary and perfectly _right_. After all, hadn't that been why he'd moved his head? He twitched his lips in half-consideration, but there was no true effort behind the fleeting thought.

"Normal." The sounds shuffled themselves together in his mind half-heartedly ('_n-or-mal_') making him aware that there had been meaning hidden in the sounds made by _someone_. He shifted again, mind still foggy, but the grass gone.

"Devlin?" It was the same tone that had made the _normal_ sound -word- and he shifted again. That name always meant wakefulness was to be fought. He waited for the laughter that was enough to make his belly ache, for the wind by his cheeks as he rode on the broom, for the quiet songs that made his eyes feel heavy - but none of that came. "Do you think he's waking up?"

He shifted his cheek again so that he could hear that _thump, thump, thump_ under his ear.

"I don't know," said another voice. The voice that should have been singing. Why did it sound worried? It wasn't supposed to be worried in his dreams.

_You're not dreaming._

His eyes shot open. His body jerked into self-awareness and he scrambled away.

She'd been holding him - like a child. The smell of vanilla, parchment, kisses and rocking chairs still filled his nostrils. The _thump, thump, thump_ of her heart still reverberated in his head.

"Hello," she said, smiling at him. He bared his teeth, still somewhere between the wolf and the boy - not sure which one.

"Hello," he said, hearing his own voice. It was deep and gravely, trying to force itself into _his_ voice. Hearing it, he knew his eyes must be amber.

"Are you still feeling sick? I have a potion for it." Her eyes were deep and intent upon him, searching his features for _something_ that he couldn't identify.

"No," he said flatly, tipping his head. He tried to shake himself into what he was supposed to be - the boy - but it was always hardest after all the convulsing. It was the boy that had the determination, but it was him that had the strength enough to pull them out of the darkness and back into reality.

"You scared me," she said - everything from her body to her voice speaking of a moment of weakness shining through her put-together exterior. He tipped his head again, analyzing every whispering clue that her movements gave away as to how _he_ should react.

"I didn't mean to," he said, hoping to appease her. She frowned and he frowned, wondering if he had reacted the right way. She choked on a sound, or made a choking sound or - he wasn't sure but it made him doubt even more that he had acted properly. He was well adapted at dealing with the red-eyed man, but he wasn't sure what to do with her. He could remember her from when he was smaller and the way the boy had treated her _then_, but knew that neither of them were the same, now.

"If we had known, Devlin," she said suddenly. There was a wetness running down her cheeks and making her eyes glaze over. She began to ramble half-coherently and since he had seen men do this before in front of the red-eyed man, he simply let her. "Harry-" she choked again "he never gave up. Ever. Not after Maria came back to her father. But...it was so _painful_ to hope about something that had so much clear evidence against it. The Ministry tested that body and then any other wizard or witch your father could get, often through steep favors, tested it too. The most renowned medi-wizards and witches and curse breakers - they all tested it. And they all said "this is Devlin Potter."

She covered her face, pushing away the wetness. _Tears_.

He reached out, stirred by the boys instincts that he had grown detached from, rather than his own wolfish ones that they had grown dependent upon, and touched her knee. She looked up at him suddenly.

"I know what Tom is like. I couldn't imagine him having any mercy for a child. I-"

"Mercy?" He asked, tipping his head - trying to interrupt her ramble that was giving him a headache.

"He let you live," she said, looking at his hand that was touching her.

"He meant to kill me," he said, because he was _almost certain_ that was the opposite of mercy. The man shifted by the door and he glanced at him, leaning uncomfortably against the doorframe. "It wasn't mercy that made him stop."

"What did?" The man asked, his green eyes on him but not meeting his gaze.

But even he knew this was a _secret_ that they kept closer to their hearts than even the blue eyes that often filled their nightmares.

"I don't talk about it," he said forcefully as if expecting a fight, except he didn't get one - the man merely stuck his hands into his pockets, slouched, and nodded at the floor. There was a shared twinge of _wishing_ that filled their gut.

"Maybe someday you'll want too," the man said and the look he was giving the floor-

_I wanted you more than anything even before I knew you. _

_I loved you before I could see you. _

_I loved you from the moment your mum told me there was the possibility you existed. _

The words surfaced in his mind, whispered and distorted and traveling through the flimsy barrier that didn't really separate him from the boy anymore. A shiver ran up his spine.

_Dead. He thought I was dead. _

The thoughts were whirling fiercely inside of his head, making everything pound.

"I want to lay down," he said suddenly, knowing nothing was going to stop unless the boy _calmed down_.

Harry had never heard his voice quite so _small_ and it reminded him of when he had been little and sick with a fever. He acted on instinct to help the boy to his feet. He looked dizzy and dazed, but must have inherited Harry's reflexes, because he managed to stay on his feet even reeling away from Harry's touch.

"Don't touch me, I didn't say you could." When the boy had awoken his eyes had been _amber. _It had made Harry think of his training as an Auror when they had shown two different pictures of wolves - a real and a werewolf - and brought the classes attention the eyes. _Werewolves will have a deeper amber and the pattern - it will be human-like. _The amber had clung to his eyes, but now - with such a forceful comment, a bit of green reentered.

_His wolf wakes him up_.

It had been a comment he hadn't thought much about when Geoffrey had said it except for that it implied Devlin _would wake up_. The relief had clouded his thoughts, otherwise he would have asked what exactly he meant.

Remus' eyes sometimes took on an amber hue - Harry had seen it when the werewolf had seen Devlin's body- the fake Devlin.

Feral werewolves could turn their eyes at will - a skill passed down over this mean Geoffrey could do the same and had taught Devlin?

Then there was the fact that Devlin had _touched_ Alexandra, yet just snapped at him.

But Harry could accept that. It was Harry's fault this had happened to his son and the boy was smart enough to understand that, obviously.

"Alright," Harry said softly, pulling his hands back to reassure Devlin that he wouldn't touch him.

Those Amber-green eyes searched his out.

"I don't like people touching me," he said softly, as if excusing himself. "Especially not after all the shaking."

"I understand," Harry said, still trying to reassure. Especially after his son had been willing to share _any_ insight with him.

"No you don't," he said, softly again. He pushed past him and turned to climb the stairs. Harry followed. He wouldn't touch him, but if he fell he was absolutely catching him!

He didn't fall.

Harry was left standing rather uselessly outside of his door while the boy crept into the bed and under the covers. He didn't seem to mind that his door was open, in fact, or that Harry was there, watching him while his eyes were closed.

"I don't like it closed anyway," he said after a while, turning to look at him. His eyes were more green, at least from this distance - perhaps it was merely Harry's wishful thinking.

"Why not?" His voice was a whisper. He felt flushed with excitement that Devlin was actually _speaking with him _and cold with dread because he suspected the boys answer.

"The room reminds me, especially if the door is closed." He was sitting up in the bed, his eyes _definitely_ more green.

"Reminds you of what?" The words were almost too painful to drag up his throat, but he mades himself, because he _had to know_ even if it would make him a thousand times more broken. Did Devlin remember his kidnapping?

His green eyes feel like cold stones upon him - not with unpleasantness but striking in their intensity. He opened his mouth and Harry prepared himself to die inside, but then the little lips closed again and he sighed, shaking his head.

"Does it really matter, sir?"

It was the first time the boy had called him _anything (_beside the time he had tried to trick him). It didn't matter in that moment that he would have preferred it was dad or Harry or even Potter. It didn't matter that he hated 'sir' because coming from his son he loved anything.

"Anything that you think about will always matter to me," he said, licking his dry lips and trying to pull together every ounce of focus he had. He couldn't mess this up.

_It will be very important to do and say things the right way, around the child. _

The mind healer had made it all very clear to Alexandra and he when they had privately consulted her, or as clear as she could make it since she had also made it clear Devlin's situation was "more than unusual".

He frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't lie to me. I don't need you to do that. Not everything I think about is important to you. You could just have said _this is_ and then you wouldn't be a liar now."

Harry shook his head adamantly.

"I wasn't lying, Devlin." He stuck his hands into his pockets only to pull them out abruptly. "I've missed so many of your thoughts...now I want to know anything you will share. I want to know _you_."

"Right now I'm thinking about how ridiculous you sound," Devlin said, a drawl to his tone. Harry stepped in a bit. His eyes were green now.

He gave the boy his best sheepish grin.

"I get that a lot, actually," he reassured. He wanted to make Devlin laugh, but that didn't seem an easy feat.

"You didn't just think I was dead," the boy said suddenly - throwing Harry's thoughts of making the boy laugh as far from him as possible. "You knew - or I mean, it seemed like you did."

"Yes," Harry said, his throat dry and sandpaper-like again.

"He told me you forgot about me," Devlin said, his hands curled up into fists around his comforter, his eyes looking down.

"Never." It hadn't needed to be said, because Devlin clearly wasn't done, but Harry couldn't stop himself. The idea that his child had thought he had simply _forgotten_ about him was enough to terrify him.

"But then I was dead." The words were monotone and defeated. "So you had to stop looking, because there was nothing to look for."

"I couldn't," he said, his voice rasp. "I kept looking. I drove everyone around me mad. I never gave up, Devlin. I-" He was crying and he hated it, because his son - raised with _Death Eaters_ must see it as sign that he was worthless. He reached for his wand suddenly. "_Accio_ Devlin's Folder!"

There was the sound of his office door opening. The whoosh as the papers came flying up the stairs and around the corner. They were floating in the air above his waiting hand, now. He took the box and strode into the bedroom, putting it on the bed in front of Devlin.

"I never forgot about you, Devlin," he said more firmly.

Inside was almost four years of papers - that much was clear to Dubhán. There were pictures of boys in one folder that weren't him '_Muggle Missing Children meeting Devlin's description'_ with several dates beneath each photo indicating 'check-ups'. There were muggle police reports and he scanned these eagerly, looking for something particular but knowing he wouldn't find it because cops were just Muggles with big sticks that they didn't know were weaker than a wand.

There was a folder listed as "Magical Adoptions" and what seemed like every magical boys adoption that had occurred in the last four years.

There was yet another folder called "Muggle Orphanages" in which there were more pictures of boys that were not him.

There were even more files "Possible Escapes?" "Muggle adoptions meeting Devlin's description" and "Possible Police Tampering cases."

He ignored the first two in favor of the last.

Inside were bundles of a bright white paper with letters that were so perfect they had to have been made with a stamp of some kind.

"Those were all dead ends," Harry said softly, coming to sit next to him on the bed. On the top of each bundle was a scribbled note about how old he would have been at the time. "But since I'm Head Auror I made the office of Improper Use of Magic send me every questionable case. After a while they stopped sending me full reports and just wrote one or two lines."

Dubhán nodded. Potter stood up.

"You can keep them all," he said after an awkward moment of simply standing there by his bed. "You should rest now. Alex won't have it if I keep you up."

But of course Dubhán didn't rest. As soon as Potter left he began to work his way through the papers. Each folder, each hand-scribbled note, each fold and tear of the paper - it was all proof that Potter _hadn't forgotten him_. 

**_'Devlin would have been seven and two months.' _**

It was another report from the 'Improper Use of Magic Office' if the stamp at the top was anything to go by. It still had lines in it, as if someone had folded it into a triangular shape. He smoothed it out and lifted it up, just like he had the other twelve he had already read.

_Auror Potter - as per your ongoing request._

_Two police officers were sent out on a dispatch for a distressed child but did not find the child at the premise or recall going there at all. Yet the records of the dispatch and the check-in remain from right before they entered the building. The owner of the Bakery _Ellie Breech_ does not remember making the call nor does her assistant _Emily Harper_. I haven't got much else about the case, Mr. Potter, except that it did occur within your 'interest zone' so I am passing it along. See below for the address the non-magical records indicate. _

His hands shook on the paper.

_'I was looking for my Daddy, but I can't find him.' _

He felt like he had been punched in the gut. All the air was suddenly gone from his lungs and when he went to gasp for some more, it wouldn't enter past his tight throat.

Him.

That had been him.

This was the one and only incident Potter could have had and Dubhán had spent years convincing himself Potter would never knew at all. The fact that he hadn't only noticed, but saved the proof, turned Dubhán's world upside down.


	15. Of Speaking Terms

He felt like he was falling, air pressing around him until his chest ached. He should breathe, but his lungs had simply stopped working. A shiver ran up his spine and for a moment he felt a thrill of fear that he would start shaking all over again, but in the next moment he remembered that didn't happen anymore - the double dose of potion would prevent another episode for at least the next six hours. He could still taste the foulness of the potion in his tightening throat - no better than the vomit that had occupied it beforehand.

The paper shook in his hands as his body shook from lack of air. Sometimes, when he was startled and full of that feeling of _unknowing_, he liked to feel anything else in it's extreme. If he were home he would have found someone to duel.

His magic whipped around him, forcing his lungs open in self-defense of itself. Sometimes he felt his magic had more of a desire for life than he himself did, but since his magic was an extension of himself, some part of him must agree with it. He always supposed it was that part that kept him alive, because there was plenty of other parts that had just wanted to give in.

It must have also been that part of him that had made him try to run away at all - that part that had been certain Harry Potter would find him if he did. That part that the other parts of him had ridiculed and called foolish for believing that at all. But that part had been right all along.

It hadn't been Dubhán himself who had failed, but Voldemort who had made sure his plan wouldn't work. Even so, Potter _had found him. _Found him without the muggles memories. Found him _despite_ Voldemort's efforts.

He folded the paper along it's crease lines, frowning in puzzlement at the triangular shape it had made.

_Airplane_,his mind whispered, like it sometimes did when faced with things Voldemort would never have found it necessary for him to know. _A paper airplane_.

He held it between his fingers, so that the T shape from behind was visible and then threw it into the air. The charm that had once been spread across the paper was long gone and it simply arced in the air and fell to the floor. He rose from the bed to fetch the paper, feeling a _need_ to keep it safe just as the man had kept it all these years.

He tucked the paper airplane into his cloak pocket, next to the picture of Emma and he that he had concealed as a plain dogeared paper with the note 'fear is for lesser beings than I' written over and over again - a thing Dubhán felt certain he could explain to Grandfather.

"Devlin?" He turned around on his heel, but it was only the man. He stood in the doorway, a sad sort of smile on his face with his hands tucked in his pockets. His eyes flickered over to the box still on the bed. "Did you rest?"

"No," he said. The sharpness remained, but the harshness was gone from his voice. The man frowned.

"Why not?" There was concern and fear and worry and - Dubhán couldn't identify all of the emotions that seemed to be permanently housed in Harry Potter's eyes.

He wanted to say something witty. Something Potter would _remember_ like Dubhán would always remember that _proof_, but he couldn't think of what that something would be. So he simply shrugged.

Potter frowned again.

"Dinner will be ready soon," he said quietly - like he thought any volume at all would cause Dubhán to begin shaking again.

"Alright," he said and cringed at the complete lack of that _something_ that he had been trying to put into his words.

The man - Potter - Harry...shifted by the door awkwardly. Dubhán fiddled with the clasp of his cloak, still slung over the back of the chair.

"Sir?" He tried not to cringe at the word that seemed so far from what Potter was. Dubhán wasn't ready to call him Potter or Harry aloud.

"Yes?"

"Do you think, after dinner perhaps, we could have a word?"

He glanced up to observe Potter's reaction.

"Sure. About what?"

"I'm not completely sure, sir." Which was a lie, but he wasn't completely ready to commit to his desire to tell the man not all of his papers had been dead ends, so he wouldn't tell the man his intentions ahead.

"Yeah, you can help me with a couple chores after dinner, alright?"

He would take what he could get, so he nodded. Besides, if the man was busy, it might make it a little easier to speak with him than if his attention, like right now, was unnervingly undivided.

"Would you like me to take the box away?" Potter asked, motioning with his head to the box on the bed.

"No," Dubhán said quickly - too quickly, because Potter's brow was arching in surprise. "I'm not done with it..." The man had said he could keep the box!

"No problem," Potter said, sounding reassuring. Dubhán nodded. "Lets get some dinner, alright?"

Dinner, itself, was an awkward affair. The lady hadn't cooked it, to begin with. Emma ate it with excitement and called it 'Chinese food', but Dubhán simply eyed it skeptically.

"It's not poisoned," the man said, with some level of humor. "It's just Muggle food. Try it - if you don't like it I'll make you a sandwich."

Try food muggles had cooked? Grandfather would scoff at the idea. No, he would probably curse someone who had even suggested he ingest something a filthy muggle had put their hands on. Suddenly Dubhán didn't have much of an appetite, thinking of what Grandfather was like angry.

"I'm not hungry," he said softly, pushing the plate away from him. "I just...I think I'll be sick," he said.

_What did you think those filthy muggles could do, Dubhán_?

He stood from the table and spun on his feet, racing for the bathroom. Potter was right behind him and without much thought he left the door open. There was, of course, nothing left in his stomach from the last time, but that didn't keep his body from dry-heaving.

Potter was at the sink, wetting a towel again. He kneeled down beside him, wiping at his forehead and neck.

"You're worried about something," he said softly. Dubhán cringed away from him.

"Don't touch me," he said. "It just makes it worse."

Potter seemed to respect that, without too much hurt entering his eyes, but Dubhán didn't have much time to consider him before he felt like he'd be sick again.

"How about a potion?"

Dubhán shook his head.

"Not supposed to take potions for this," he said, each word said quickly between heaves. "It interferes with the seizure draught," he added, so the man was certain to understand.

Potter frowned and worried his bottom lip for a moment.

"Well then, there's nothing to it except to tell me what's bothering you."

He looked at him incredulously - firstly at his seeming-certainty that he _would_ tell, secondly because it seemed obvious to him that he was in a less than good position to spill secrets.

"Calm down, Devlin," he said softly, imploring him to listen. He reached out to touch him, his gaze connected with his, pleading him to trust him. Dubhán held his tongue and Potter brushed his hand through his hair. All the nerves on his skull which he didn't think he had burst to life and he shivered with something in between pleasure and surprise. "You've got to calm down."

His hands were on him now, pulling him away from the toilet. Dubhán nearly said the words he could tell Potter was pleading him not to: _don't touch me_, but he bit down on his tongue.

"Shh, no one here cares and I promise I won't tell - even under torture." Potter used wandless magic to close the door and then he found himself leaning against Potter, with Potter's arms around him. He could hear the thump-thump-thump of Potter's heart. He sat frozen for a minute, trying to will himself to struggle but feeling a creeping calm overtake him that made it hard to will himself to do anything.

"When you were small and you got scared, you'd always get sick. You're mum could never get to you to calm down - you weren't like Emma who would melt at the sound of a lullaby. The only thing that calmed you down was magic. I used to show you tricks and you used to try to copy them."

"I know," Dubhán said, although the vague recollections felt like they had happened a million years ago to an entirely different boy from some different world.

"Do you think you could help me with those chores, now?" He asked, his chin in the nape of Dubhán's neck, his voice right by his ear. He nodded. Potter helped him up and then stood himself.

"You'll need your cloak," he said and smiled at Dubhán's confusion. "I'll meet you in the kitchen, alright?"

So he went to retrieve his dragon-hide cloak and then went down to the kitchen. Emma was questioning Potter and she caught his presence mid-sentence about something being 'unfair'.

"You can help me another time, Emma," Potter said, and he motioned for him to follow him outside.

Was this a trick? A test? Or was Potter really this foolish?

Dubhán had no intention of escaping, but surely Potter didn't know that. Nevertheless, Dubhán followed him onto the back deck without uttering his thoughts aloud.

"We have to go to the shed," he said, pointing to a small building set near the back of the yard. Dubhán couldn't think of what someone would want in such a dingy looking shed, but he chose to keep these thoughts to himself, as well.

"Alright," he said instead. They crossed the yard in silence, Dubhán's thoughts compacting and expanding in his mind - making a mess.

Finally, they reached the door and Potter pulled it open. Inside it was bigger than it appeared - much bigger. It was dimly lit and so warm that had Dubhán's cloak not had regulating charms on it, he would have been pulling it off in a hurry. The left right wall was lined with clear bins and as he stepped forward he realized that whatever was in them was _talking_.

_Food. Feeding. The man with the stick. _

The odd comments continued from the boxes as Potter took off his leather jacket and hung it on a hook by the door, all the while watching him intently.

"Still think you can help me?" He asked.

"What do you want me to help you with?" He asked, but the confusion only made Potter smirk. "What have you got in there?" He asked, pointing to the boxes. Was it lost souls? Shrunken prisoners? What was _speaking_?

"Why do you ask?" He said, grinning. Dubhán swallowed past his drying throat. Perhaps Potter wasn't as good as everyone else seemed to think...

"Because...they're talking...whatever they are..."

"And he was afraid to have you around Nagini," Potter said, with forced casualty. "They're only snakes. Here, I'll show you my favorite."

But Dubhán didn't move to follow him across the room. He was frozen with amazement for a moment. Snakes? He could understand them?

Potter brought a small one over to him. It was jewel blue with bright yellow eyes. "It is almost as rare as a Basilisk," Potter said. It slithered between his fingers silently, then suddenly it seemed to sense his presence, it's small tongue flickering in and out rapidly.

"_I smell a child," _it hissed, looking directly at him. _"Does he speak?" _

_"_Speak to her, Devlin," Harry said, managing to force himself to speak English.

Dubhán looked up at him, lost in a sense of bewilderment.

"Just stare at her while you speak - you won't be able to help yourself right now."

So he did.

_"Hello_," but instead of hearing hissing he just heard himself, and frowned. It clearly hadn't worked. Potter was laughing.

"I forgot to tell you that it would sound just like English," the man said. "I didn't even know I was speaking it until the whole of Hogwarts saw me and told me!"

Somehow Dubhán had expected Harry Potter to hate that he could speak to snakes (and how Harry could, Dubhán wasn't quite sure), but instead the man seemed to be undisturbed by his Slytherin qualities. Dubhán still half-expected that the man was playing a trick on him. If he couldn't tell he was speaking Parseltongue, then how would he ever know Potter wasn't just fooling him?

_"Hello, speaking child,"_ the snake said, rising it's head into the air, it's tail curling around Potter's fingers. Dubhán looked at Potter.

"_He is feeling like a hatchling," _Potter said, and Dubhán wanted to be furious. But then Potter was swallowing and shaking himself and saying: "There is no word for 'shy' or 'uncertain' in Parseltongue that she will understand."

_"My doing?" _

Dubhán had never liked people talking about him as if he weren't there.

"_I am merely-" _but when he wanted to say 'surprised' it came as "_startled_" instead. "_I did not know I could speak snake," _he added. The little blue snake flicked it's tongue in and out, in and out.

"_You smell like you can_," it said, "_the man does not. He smells like just a man._"

Parseltongue had a smell? He looked at Potter, but he shrugged. Dubhán was reminded of what Grandfather had once told him about snakes - that they would find him and talk to him.

"_So you are calling him smelly?"_ Potter asked, laughing at the end.

"_Yess,"_ the snake said, but she seemed to have taken the question literally and didn't seem to catch onto the humor at all. "_He's more a speaker than you."_

Potter nodded, but a doubt had reentered his eyes that Dubhán had seen there before but been unable to quantify the purpose.

"_I will be feeding in a moment_," he said to the snake as he turned around to put her back.

"So, still want to help me?" Potter asked, his eyes on _him_, speaking English.

"_Yes, and talk,_" he said, but his eyes had been wandering and he decided that he must have been speaking Parseltongue from the slight tip of Harry's head.

"You have to make sure you're looking at a person if there are snakes around and you want to speak English. I can only speak Parseltongue when I can see a snake, in fact."

"Is that true for everyone?" He asked, frowning. Potter shrugged, seeming to dismiss the question, but then he turned around before sticking his hand into an opaque bin and answered.

"No, it's not. I suspect it's because as the snake said - I am less a speaker. Voldemort can speak it mostly freely. His mothers side of the family hardly spoke English at all, from what I have been told."

He pulled a mouse out by it's tail and deposited in the furthest bin.

"Think you can grab one? Talk to the snake before you put it in, some are venomous but they won't bite you if you talk to them."

Inside of the opaque bin (which he suspected wasn't clear so the snakes couldn't see in) were dozens of mice. The box was under wizard-space spells, enlarging it despite it's true physical dimensions. He reached in, caught one as Harry had by the tail, and then transferred it to a more firm grip between his hands. It scurried and scratched against his skin.

He chose to feed it to yellow and black snake, that was slithering in anticipation by the side of it's glass.

"_I'm going to feed you, don't bite me." _

The snake paused in it's endless slithering long enough to flick it's tongue out at him.

"_Why would I bite you? I cannot swallow a giant. Give me the tiny mouse." _

So Dubhán put the mouse into the container. He was about to move when Potter came up behind him and made a quick X on the cage with his wand, probably to signify it had been fed.

"The bigger they are, the more they seem to _get _things - like sarcasm. Albert - I only name the ones that say funny things to me - likes to be especially sarcastic." There was a smile on Potter's face. "I'll do the marks for you if you just tell me which you've fed."

They went to the mouse cage together, but after Dubhán had fed another snake he made sure to mark the cage with his finger. It looked just the same as Potter's mark, but was gold instead of Potter's blue.

Potter went automatically over to the cage he had just left to mark it, only to physically _halt_ in front of the cage, looking bewildered.

"So, ah, what did you want to talk about?" He asked, seeming to shake away his surprise.

Dubhán felt nervousness flutter in his stomach and he almost shrugged and denied his request, but something in him felt compelled. _Don't think, don't feel - just do what has to be done_.

"About those papers," he said, trying to sound casual as they caught mice together again. Potter happened to catch two and passed one along to him. He knew that curiosity must be biting at Potter's stomach - or perhaps just dread, Dubhán couldn't be sure, but he admired the man's determination to play along with his casualness as they parted ways to feed the mice to another two snakes.

"What interested you about them?" Potter asked, as they headed to the mice again.

Dubhán waited until they had parted ways again to answer.

_"_He told me you forgot, but those papers...they prove you didn't." Potter seemed to have no answer - or at least no comment he wished to share - so Dubhán pushed ahead. "They were important to you," he said, letting the statement hang in the air between them as the question it really was.

"Very important. They were my hope that one day I would find you."

"But you would let me keep them-"

"I would do anything for you to see that we did not abandon you, Devlin."

Dubhán knew Potter had meant well with his interruption, but somehow the words seemed harder to say when they weren't buried in the middle of a sentence. He fidgeted.

Potter looked down at his watch.

"Lets go inside. Emma will be in bed now - Alex will be reading her a story."

Dubhán wasn't sure what he felt about that, but if he protested he was afraid he'd lose more of this courage, so he simply followed Potter out of the shed. Potter laid his leather jacket across the table and motioned for Dubhán to sit down.

"I've been treating you like a child," Potter said, as he rummaged through the 'refrigerator'. "You're mum says it's a mistake. So if you want to have a conversation, we'll have one like I would with a friend."

He slid a cold glass bottle across the table to him, keeping one in his own hands as he seated himself across from him. Dubhán turned the bottle of 'Butter Beer'. He'd had one before, once or twice at the Malfoy Manor or Bella's house. It was the pretend grown-up drink that he was always offered while Grandfather sipped whisky and Malfoy drank Rum.

"Want some help?" Potter asked, after he's swallowed a sip. Dubhán shook his head and uncorked the bottle. It was cold with a smooth flavor going down. "So, what about the papers?"

He avoided Potter's gaze as he reached into his cloak pocket, trying to keep his eye on the man's hands rather than his face. He drew out the folded piece of paper, still in the form of a paper airplane, and smoothed it out on the table top.

When he chanced a glance up at Potter's face it was to be met with confusion and fear and a bit of dread.

"What did you do when you got this report?" He asked, passing the paper across the table. Potter stared at it for a long moment, his eyes flittering across the words a couple times.

"I did what I did for every report - I went to investigate. In this case I went to the bakery and talked to the young lady and she said the same thing as the police - that there had been a boy, but that when they called they hadn't said dark hair and eyes, but blonde with blue eyes and that after the police came, the boys father showed up, searching door to door for him. I forget how the boy had been split from his father. There is another folder in the box with my investigations," Potter tapped the top of the page where he had scrawled a set of number. "I linked them through codes."

"You investigated every one of them?" Dubhán asked, thinking back to the box full of the papers. He took another sip of the drink to distract himself from the way his chest was feeling especially constricted.

Potter nodded.

"Were you just wondering about what I did with them?" He asked, eying him - measuring his success or failure to do what Dubhán had wanted.

"No," Dubhán said, more softly than he thought he had said the word to the man before. "No, I wanted..." he turned away, frowning.

"I'd never been under Imperio before," he said instead, as he turned back to the man, careful to avoid his direct gaze. "He warned me - he always did before he did something like that, but it was the first time, so I didn't know and I kept begging those men not to let him take me. I told them he wasn't my father and they stepped in front of me, but they're just muggles and muggles can't do a thing against our magic. He silenced them and held them still and then he told me not to make it difficult. He made them forget all about me, I thought. Then he turned to me and I thought...I thought maybe he'd make me forget all about it too, one way or another, but he didn't. He made me walk to him and everything was light and good and I was happy - until I wasn't, but by then I _knew_ I couldn't change that I had _failed_."

He felt breathless and when he drew in air it _hurt_, making his whole body shudder. Potter was frozen across from him. His was face pale and unbelieving, his hands trembling on his butter beer, while his eyes grew darker with something Dubhán couldn't identify but knew he wished weren't there.

"That was you," Potter said, tapping the paper as if to clarify they really were talking about the same thing. Dubhán nodded, trying to push himself to watch Potter's reactions. He let the butter beer go and now had his head in his hands. His fingers had pushed aside his fringe, making the scar that made him so famous visible. Dubhán had never really seen it before and found himself facinated for a moment.

"You tried to escape?" He let his eyes trail back down to the entirety of Potter's face, finding that the man's eyes were wet with unshed tears, his hands clenched into fists atop the table, and his jaw tight.

"I did escape," he said, because it was a distinction he felt was important. He hadn't failed entirely. "But then he found me."

Potter was fingering the paper, eyes glued to the words.

"You were there. I- I should have known this one was real..."

Dubhán frowned and felt a little bit of anger bloom in his chest. He had pushed himself - made him do something that felt especially unnatural for him and reached out to Potter believing that he would get an entirely different reaction than he was. He had wanted Potter to be _happy_, but instead he seemed to have made the man more depressed than before.

"How...how did you escape?" He asked, after emptying his bottle.

Dubhán smirked.

"You and he would both like to know - and maybe he already does, but I'm not going to actually say it out loud - it is my secret."

Potter frowned at his comment - or perhaps his expression - but didn't press him.

"We're all entitled to our secrets," Potter said, and there was such a poignancy about his words that Dubhán wondered what secrets Potter kept from the world.

"I agree," he said adamantly, thinking of all of his.

It was as he said this that they both heard the creak at the top of the stairs and then, moments later, the lady was standing in the doorway.

"Emma is asleep," she said, dressed in a white gown, her red locks tucked away in a braid. "Now it is your turn, Devlin."

He wasn't sure where he would have gone with the man afterwards - probably into the realm of emotions and since he had no experience in that area and it made him so uncomfortable, he chose not to argue with the lady. She had just given him a wonderful escape - something Dubhán had learned never to throw away.

"Alright," he said and picked up his bottle to drown the rest. Maybe it would stop the nightmares - Geoffrey said sometimes that was how he stopped a bad dream. He eyed the paper and then pulled it gently away from the man, unwilling to give it up, even as he saw the man's desire to keep it as well. But Dubhán did not offer and the man did not object.

He climbed the stairs by himself, found his room, removed his shoes, changed into a pair of hideously bright sleep clothes and lay in bed. He was sleep in moments.

Downstairs, Harry eyed Alexandra leaning in the doorframe as she eyed the path their son had just taken up the stairs. He got up to put the bottles in the trash when he noticed a stray piece of Emma's drawing paper on the floor. Zee would eat it during the night (he had a thing for parchment) so he picked it up now. Except it wasn't one of Emma's papers. It was far too old and dogeared and it had a much more elegant script covering it. _Fear is for lesser beings than I. _

"I'm going to bed, Harry," she said and he knew the day had been too much for her, or she would have noticed and asked after what was in his hands.

"Sure baby - I'll be up in a couple minutes."

She was already turning around when she called him a liar, but there was affection and bemusement in her voice so he merely smiled at her back. When he heard their door open (she would leave it open until he came in), he turned back to the paper.

He might have just put the paper aside for Devlin to get in the morning (no matter how much he wanted to burn the words on it), but Hermione had drilled in his head to always test things like this, so he did. Ink swirled, compacting and expanding until it formed the picture that had sat for years on Devlin's bedside table.

He felt his breath hitch in his throat. Suddenly he _knew_ and it was with this knowing filling him that he threw powder into the floo and shouted for Sirius. The man came running into the living room in just his boxers, eyes wild and alert.

"What's wrong? Whose hurt? Do you need me? I'll be right there-"

"I need to talk to the Death Eater," Harry said, his voice a breath of surprise and awe with a deadly edge that Sirius did not miss. He stepped aside to let Harry enter.

"What's he done, Harry? What did Devlin tell you?"

"This isn't about something Devlin told me," he said, "I just need to talk to him. I suspect he lied about a small detail..."

Sirius growled but let Harry by. Harry was well aware the two didn't get along.

The Death Eater was sitting up in his barebones room at his desk. The observation orb that would let another Order member watch him from afar while Sirius slept, hovered in the center of his room. Harry tapped it with his wand and the magical light emanating from it vanished. The Death Eater turned around more fully at the action, arching his brow.

"Did you want to speak to me privately, Mr. Potter?" There was a dash of fear in his amber brown eyes.

"Yes, in fact I did." The fear increased.

"What about, if I may ask?"

"About a photograph of a boy that was found in your robes," he said, his voice deadly as he sat himself on the immaculately made bed. His wand was drawn, laying in his lap casually. The werewolf had noticed, he was sure.

"What about the photograph of the boy?"

"You said that another Death Eater had taken it," he said, fiddling with his wand.

"Yes, I do believe I did. But if we are going to throw around quotes perhaps it would be wisest to review the interrogation in a pensieve."

"No, I don't think that will be necessary."

The werewolf swallowed.

"Tell me who you took it from."

"I told you I couldn't quite recall," he said delicately. "It was years ago."

"You said it was a Death Eater - but you lied, didn't you?"

"It was years ago," he said again, "I can't quite recall. There are many pictures of the boy." The Death Eater's eyes narrowed at his clear surprise. "Perhaps Voldemort himself took that picture to document the bruise and handed it to me and I forgot," he offered, trying to appease him with another lie.

"We both know that isn't true," He said, trying to inject just a tiny bit of kindness into his tired voice. "We both know who put it there."

"Then why are you here, in the middle of the night, asking me?"

"Because I have to know."

"Well then, I am sure to disappoint you, Mr. Potter - since I cannot be certain myself. All I know is that I hung my robes up after the Dark Lord took me off of active duty and have only worn them briefly through the years. The night you caught me was the first time I had worn them outside of a Death Eater camp. I was as surprised to find it there as yourself."

He turned away from the werewolf to look at the picture in his hands, still dusted with Devlin's magic.

"You feel you can be certain?" Asked the Death Eater, his voice oddly tight. Downstairs he could hear voices - most likely whoever had the responsibility of watching Geoffrey had come when the orb had been turned off.

"Yes," he said, rubbing his thumb across the picture.

"He tried to escape once," Geoffrey said, his voice oddly soft and tight. Harry looked up at him, searching his face as if he might be able to see the memory through them, but he had never been any good at Legilimency. "When the Dark Lord dragged him back...it was one of the only times I feared for the boys life."

"Had you been tied to the boy magically at the time?"

The Death Eater swallowed visibly, averting his gaze - which was all the answer Harry had needed.

"I knew," the Death Eater said, looking at his hands. Harry could hear the footfalls climbing the stairs and wanted to shake the answer out of the Death Eater before they were interrupted. "I told the Dark Lord - doing anything else would be suicide - for both the boy and I."

Harry frowned and now the Death Eater had heard the stairs too, for he looked up, more energized than before.

"I can only tell when the boy's body gives him away - if he were capable of controlling his emotions, I wouldn't be able to tell. I had to tell the Dark Lord he had escaped even though I hadn't _felt_ anything, because if he had known - if he had suspected the boy were as capable as he is...I was afraid he would see him less as a novel toy and more as competition."

"But you said he was dependent-"

"The boy is but-"

"Open this door!" It was Hermione, following procedure like the Know-it-all girl he had always known. He stood to comply, sending a longing look back at Geoffrey. It was times likes these that Harry thought of going rouge, because once you "worked with" a group, information that was better kept _private_ became everyones business. No one needed to know about Devlin but Harry and Alexandra - but if he questioned Geoffrey like he were _supposed too_, Dumbledore, at the very least, would know as well. So he'd have to settle for the information piece-meal. In the years since Devlin's birth, he had found that he wasn't as lacking in patience as he had been as a teenager.

"We'll continue at another time - you will keep this matter...private."

The werewolf gave a nod and Harry opened the door, accepting the round of identification spells that rammed into his chest without warning. Hermione always followed the safety procedures to the T.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" She asked, a much more kind expression passing over her face. Sirius was behind her, grumbling about him 'knowing his godson without damn spells.'

"I needed to see how Geoffrey was. Devlin was worried."

Hermione frowned, but something in his face must have told her not to press his lie - just as something in her face would have done the same to him. It was at times like this that Harry knew he needed this group - needed people who could read him like a book but not judge him by what they saw.

"Alright. Well, he's obviously alright. Next time you can just floo call us and we'd tell you."

He gave a curt nod and walked past her to the stairs.

At home the door to their bedroom was open and when he peaked in, Alexandra was asleep, a halo of red hair spread out on her pillow. He moved on, finding Emma sleeping soundly in her bed, as he had expected. He inched toward Devlin's room. The door was closed and locked. Harry stood there for a moment, feeling a _need_ to check on the boy, but also afraid that if he broke through the child's locking charm, he'd break the tiny bit of trust he had gained today. He snuck away from the door and back to Alexandra.

"Where did you go, Harry?" She asked, pulling herself against his body.

"Too perceptive, hmm?" He asked, kissing her silky hair and breathing in her scent.

"Our wards are too good, more like," she kissed his cheek and he smiled in that dizzy sort of way that her kisses always made him.

"I went to visit Sirius."

She yawned loudly, laying her head on his chest.

"The Death Eater, you mean," she murmured into his chest.

"Yeah, maybe."

"You're a horrible liar, Harry," she chided, her voice entirely too sleepy.

"I know," he said, running a hand through her hair and smiling.

"Did you get what you wanted?"

"Yes."

"You'll tell me in the morning then. I won't remember it properly right now." It wasn't a suggestion Harry knew and he drifted off to sleep trying to figure out how to tell her that he was certain it was Devlin that had planted the photo in Geoffrey's cloak.

UPCOMING:

Sometimes he thought Potter chose to live at Godric's Hallow just to show off his wife's ability with wards. It was _her_ magic woven into every space around the building, like a thick woolen blanket. No amount of wards would change the fact that Voldemort already knew where the house was.


	16. Question for Harry

He found himself thinking about the boy at the most inopportune moments, like right now while the man looked at him, wondering about his next action with clear apprehension.

He was twirling his wand, just like he had the first night he had seen the boy. The boy had looked up at him, like this Auror, but unlike this man, the boys eyes had _met _his own.

He frowned at the pale beaten man before him. _Bennington_, his Death Eater's had said. He was of little importance in Voldemort's opinion - he held no true information and was especially weak for one of Potter's stock. He suspected, in fact, that he was meant merely as a distraction designed by his followers in the hope that making the man scream would improve his mood.

He flicked his wand. The Auror screamed.

The boy never screamed.

"Avada Kedavra," he said firmly, already bored. Everything was dull and boring. Every unchallenging thing brought his mind back to the boy. The boy who wouldn't scream. The boy with that _something_ in his eyes that he had seen in his own eyes as a boy. The boy that looked just like him. The boy that followed in his wake, ever eager but not always enthralled by him. The one boy _Voldemort_ sought to impress.

The Auror fell forward - dead. How boring. He called Nagini forward with an idle hiss and watched as she ate her dinner with no true interest.

He was thinking about the boy as he dismissed his men. Thinking about the boy as he wandered slowly to his tent. If it weren't for the boy he would be living at a manor. It had been the boy for whom he had created this place - to hide him.

Voldemort scowled and in a rash, thoughtless moment, pulled his cloak around him and swirled into nothingness.

Sometimes he thought Potter had chosen to live at Godric's Hallow just to show off. Potter and _her_ magic were woven into every space around the building, like a thick woolen blanket. After all, the house might be well hidden, but Voldemort already knew where it was.

He could still picture how inside the door was the hallway, leading to the kitchen on one side and the living room to the other. He could still picture the layout of the upstairs hallway and the nursery.

He stared into the false image of the house, showing only a cozy house with a few lights lit and a perfectly maintained front lawn. There was a dog house out front.

_I have a dog, his name is Zee. _

The boys childish voice - how grating - came floating unbidden into his mind.

_He gives me kisses. _

**_'I do not care about the dog you once had, child_****.' **

He stares at the second window on the left of the second floor.

_We went in through the boys window, my Lord. It was unwarded. _

**_Which window, Malfoy?_**

_The second window from the left, my Lord. _

Was the boy there now? Was he sleeping or was he tossing and turning against the nightmares that boiled in his sleep?

Sometimes when the boy had a nightmare Voldemort would sit there and watch him. It was the only time the boy screamed. Sometimes he would feel a small twitch catch at the edges of his lips and find himself smiling at just the idea that the boy _could_ scream - that he had _made him_ even if it had to be like this. The nightmares and the seizures were _his_ mark upon the boys mind - proof that he had _changed_ him. _His. _Other times he would wake the boy before he could scream, dose him with a potion, and leave him.

He reached out with one long finger and brushed the wards.

For the briefest moment he could see past the wards. His eyes flickered to the upstairs window and he felt his lips pulling back in a smile. There was the boy, staring at him with startle that he could read even this far away. Voldemort wondered what he was thinking. What had Potter told the boy about him? What had the boy told Potter about him?

The boy himself looked well, but Voldemort knew he couldn't tell from this far away. Was he well? Had he had an episode yet? Voldemort could not imagine the boy hadn't. He had tried for years to instill a calm in the boy - an ability to pull his emotions under his control. Unfortunately, the boy often wore his base emotions openly - especially stress. It was the one way the boy was not like him. He had been a natural at Occlumency, but something had always blocked the boys ability to control his own mind.

He should be Disapperating away before Potter came rushing out, but he couldn't look away. He had found himself inconveniently stuck thinking of the boy again. This inconvenient thinking had all begun with the boy, he thought caustically. War was lived in the present and he had always prided himself on living _now_, not in what was or might have been.

Then he had heard the boy speak - not stiffly while his wand was pointed at him - but afterwards. The cadence and flow of his words, along with the tip of his head and curve of his lips, had brought back his past. This boy, who looked just like him. Who spoke just as brilliantly. Just like him, except there was something fundamentally different about him that Voldemort had never been able to pinpoint. It was this aspect that kept him intrigued with the boy. This idea that _he_ could have been more. That this boy was more. The only thing he could think of was the Muggles - they had taken something from him and the lack of them in the boys life, had allowed the boy to keep this elusive _something_.

"You are still my little dark one, Dubhán," he said and then he was gone in a whirl of vapor.

oOoOoOo

Potter woke with a start. Alexandra was already awake beside him. They looked across the bed at each other and rose with a single mind.

Alexandra went to Emma's room. Harry went to Devlin's. He felt like he was reliving a nightmare as his feet carried him away from his wife and down the hall.

"Clear," he heard Alexandra whisper, her body still halfway in Emma's room. She would remain there until he also claimed Devlin's room was clear.

It was locked, but he broke through the locks without a second thought. He hoped to find the boy asleep in his own bed, but instead he found him awake as well, staring out his window.

"Clear," Harry said automatically, because he knew Alexandra wouldn't be able to breathe until he did.

Devlin turned at the word, although Harry suspected he knew he was there the moment he undid the lock.

"Clear?" He asked, his eyes wide and flickering longingly towards his window once more.

Harry didn't know what to say. His scar was still throbbing dully, undeniable evidence about _who_ had just disrupted the wards around his house. Alexandra wouldn't yet know_ that_ bit of information and his head throbbed behind his scar at the mere notion of telling her.

"The wards were disturbed," he said evenly, regarding the boy.

"I know," he said, one hand still on the windowpane. "It was Grandfather. I saw him...he left me here."

His voice was soft and child-like and so full of an uncertainty and _want_ which Harry couldn't wrap his head around. Harry watched as his eyes flickered to the window again, his hand still resting against the glass.

"You saw him?" He asked, his own heart pitter-pattering feebly behind his ribcage.

Devlin looked at him again, green eyes filled with that _longing_ and gut-wrenching _hopelessness_ that in any other circumstance Harry felt he would know how to deal with. But these emotions froze him, because he knew at who they were directed.

"Yes, right there. He looked at me," his eyes flickered again, his hand raising from the glass just enough for a finger to curl out and point at a specific spot that Harry had little desire to see. "But he _left _me."

Part of Harry, a very large part, wanted to tell the boy that Voldemort had left him because the monster didn't really care about him and besides, he was _safer_ here - but another part (smaller but more reasonable), held him back and demanded he take a calming breath instead.

"I wish it could all be different for you, Devlin," he said softly. "I wish he wasn't what he is. I wish - I wish he was just a normal wizard and we could...invite him over to dinner and to your birthdays and..." He trailed off, because there in front of him was a shadow and standing behind him was Alexandra in her night shirt (one of his own), looking to him the perfect image of the girl that had come home with their three year old son after learning the truth about her father.

Devlin was looking at her too, eyes intense upon her wide quickly-watering eyes. Harry knew she did not do well with these things. The realm of all-consuming emotions was where he, and not she, was most comfortable. Harry never felt whole unless he was feeling a multitude of things at once.

"You can't make me hate him. You don't know him like I do."

Of course Harry didn't want to make him hate the monster - he wished the child would hate him all by himself as he had every right to do.

_Kidnap victims come to depend upon their captor and begin to identify with them. It will not surprise me if your son defends the actions of his captors - even the fact that they kept him or hurt him. _

Harry swallowed thickly, trying to let the Mind Healer's words seep into his consciousness.

"We will never tell you how to feel, Devlin," Alex said, shifting again in the hallway. Her eyes were wet and tired and Harry wished that she would let the whole world go and stop working nightshifts just long enough to _breathe_. But neither of them ever stopped working, because they were trying to change the world and there wasn't time for _sleep_. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had slept all night.

It was in moments like this that Harry was especially aware of how much more difficult it was to balance being a fighter and a parent. If he didn't have Emma and Devlin he would be out there covered in dirt and grime sleeping in tents and rushing for the battle with Voldemort, all-consumed with any possibility of triumph. But he wasn't alone and he was _needed_ in a much different way than he had ever been needed in his life. There had been a moment, when he began dating Alexandra, that he had felt that tug of being _needed, _but then he would look at her next to him and know that they were both in this to the death - both as needing and needless all at once - and the moment would pass.

Devlin had changed everything so suddenly.

And then he had been taken and _that_ had changed everything so suddenly as well, in an entirely different way. Life had become different for the year following his kidnapping and believed death. Alex and he had delved into 'work' once more, feeling again that they were in it until death - if their child could just _die_ then the balance had shifted. It hadn't been as important to see Emma begin drawing, talking, running - as it had with Devlin. Each moment had been tempered with the idea that if they didn't work hard enough she would just be _gone_ and it was more important to _keep her alive_ than to experience every moment with her.

Then they had woken from that nightmare and realized that life had fallen out of balance entirely and they weren't just fighters but still parents. Just when Harry had thought he was managing to pull himself away from the elusive (and 'crazy') idea that he would ever have Devlin back, he had found the picture of the boy in the Death Eater's pocket. Once more, Devlin had changed everything so suddenly.

He shook himself. Alexandra was regarding him intently, worried about his silence.

He moved forward without any words - not because he thought it the best idea but rather because he couldn't think of any words to use. He touched Devlin's shoulder and felt a mini explosion of happiness when the boy didn't immediately say 'Don't touch me, I didn't say you could'.

"We want you to be yourself - always. We don't care what you think about him. We don't care what he thinks about us. We want you to make your own opinions from the _evidence_ you see around you."

There was a hardness in Devlin's eyes that Harry felt had little to do with just him - because if it did, wouldn't he have opened his mouth and demanded Harry not touch him?

"Everyone is bad," he said slowly and firmly, that coldness overtaking his face and making Harry's heart pitter-patter some more at the almost _exact_ copy Devlin made of the young Tom Riddle Albus had once shown him, years before Devlin's birth.

"No," Harry said. He had expected this - expected Devlin to feel like there was no one he could truly _trust_ left in the world. But while he was shaking his head, so was Devlin.

"Everyone is bad. Death Eater's kill people. Auror's kill people. I bet you've killed people."

There was a blankness that didn't belong in any child's eyes, but especially not while conversing about death. Harry felt a chill run up his spine.

"You don't really mean what you say. He used to tell me to pay attention to _everything, _too."

Harry felt that all-consuming emotional state enveloping - feeling too many things to identify them individually.

"You're right," Alex said, stepping into the doorway of the room. "About the Death Eater's and the Auror's - and Harry and I. We're at war. It isn't always like this - with death everywhere. But the hurt remains the same. Everyone hurts."

"So what is so bad about _him_?"

Harry looked away. This was the part that Alexandra, and not he, was most comfortable with. This was her realm - of logic and reason and action and reaction. He watched as she walked to his desk and pulled out the chair and seated herself down - just like she had at the safe house. Her wand was on her lap and she fiddled with it there. Harry remembered a time she had once twirled it between her fingers - before they had dated. She had stopped after Harry had pointed out (in a moment of attempted-showoff) that Voldemort did the same thing. Looking back it always made him want to disappear, but there had been something about Alex that had always stopped him being able to think properly and made him say especially stupid things.

"Good people do what they must to protect themselves and their world. Voldemort hurts people who are of no harm to him or his world."

"You mean muggles," he said.

"That's one group of people that I meant, yes. Do you...understand what Harry and I...see?"

Devlin's eyes flickered to the window for a moment. Some of the blankness had crept away and Harry felt like he could breathe again.

"There's a lot I understand," he said slowly, looking to the window again. "But then there are things I just don't want to understand." He looked at them both for a moment. "I'm tired. You can leave - I won't do anything foolish."

Harry didn't want to leave. It was Alexandra who nodded, assured him they were there if he needed, and physically _dragged _him out of the room.

It was only after they were gone that he moved away from the window.

OoOoO

"Hello," he said. He thought it was the first time he had actually greeted the man in the morning. He had taken the time to change into clothing and take a shower. He thought he looked half-way decent dressed in another one of the button down shirts and trousers (the last left and he wondered when the dirty clothing would be clean again). He hadn't found the brush the man had lent him the last time, and didn't feel right using the pink one in the bathroom that he was sure was Emma's so his hair fell into his eyes in wet strands that felt strange. Still, it was better groomed than the mans at this hour of the day.

"Good morning, Devlin," Harry said softly, smiling and flipping a pancake. He looked tired. The girl look too chipper in comparison. The lady wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Where..." and he was caught by the fact that he hadn't really put a name to her yet. "Where is Alex?"

That was what the man often called her. It didn't seem to phase him overly much, although Emma was looking at him oddly now over the rim of her chocolate milk.

"She's in the study, working."

He nodded, coming to sit across from the girl.

"Eggs?" Harry asked, as he slide a plate in front of him and prepared to tip half the eggs he had been cooking onto his plate.

"No, thank you, sir. I don't like them." Harry pulled back, a perplexed frown joining a mildly crumpled brow.

"But you have eaten them almost every morning here," he said, and as if to emphasize the perplexity he was feeling, his brow crumpled some more.

"I'll eat them again today, if you like," he offered, in what he hoped was as perfectly polite and uncaring as he felt. He would eat them - he had no intentions of starting a battle over something as foolish as eggs. Harry shook his head a tiny bit.

"No, no," he said, seeming to understand. Dubhán wasn't sure what he had suddenly understood, but he shrugged as if to affirm the man. "What _do_ you like?"

"Toast," he said quietly. "With strawberry jam."

"And?"

He tilted his head at the odd question.

"Just toast."

"That isn't enough for a growing boy," Harry said, with an almost flat tone.

"I like ham too."

Before Dubhán knew it there was ham and toast on his plate.

"We've only got raspberry jam, you want it anyway?"

"Alright," he said, because it was such a small thing. He thought he might actually like watching the man move through the kitchen, cooking without a wand. He'd never seen many people 'cook' breakfast because he was often served breakfast alone in the kitchen attached to his tent, but once in a while he would sneak out when Voldemort had clearly already left himself, and wander down to the common kitchen and eat with Geoffrey - more often lunch or dinner. At the camp all the food was prepared magically - which was a show in itself. At camp there were no houselfs either - because they were a security risk. Here it was a much more subdued show, but somehow just as impressive. Harry managed to cook all the food at once, without burning a thing. After he was done, he settled down at the table with them.

"So - anyone have anything to say this morning?"

Emma gave a small hop in her chair and a grin spread rapidly over her face, but she never got to tell Harry what had made her look so. An owl was tapping it's beak on the window behind Harry. Harry rose to get the bird.

"It's a Hogwarts bird," he said as the thing flew in and landed next to Emma. She fed it a scrap of her bacon as Potter unhooked the envelope attached to it's leg. He seemed to give a sigh of relief as he read the missive.

"Severus says he'll meet up with us again, Devlin," Potter said - as if this was supposed to be as relieving to him as it seemed to be to Harry. "He gave us some possible times. I'll talk to Mum about them."

He magicked the missive to a metal board on the wall. Dubhán tried not to show his dread and kept eating.

OoOoOoO

Alexandra was pouring over some manuscript or another - written in Goblin, that's as far as his knowledge carried him. Emma was playing with a baby doll that acted like a real infant; right now it was cooing quietly while Emma sang to it softly, but if it started wailing Harry would tap it with his wand for the girl and _"restart"_ it, because otherwise it _wouldn't stop_. Apparently she had lost it's bottle at school one day. The toy made Dubhán's lips curl in distain - who would want to play with something that only gave you a headache? But he looked away, because it was Harry he was most interested in.

He found the man regarding him intently, ignoring the papers in his own lap. Dubhán uncurled himself, marked the page in _Magical Signatures: Unlocked_ and wandered slowly to the man. He had a question on his mind. Since the question did not contain any of the words Alexandra usually looked aghast when he said the in front of the girl (fuck, bloody hell, dead, death, killed, murdered, tortured, beaten, Crucio and Imperius - were the ones he had catalogued so far), he felt he wouldn't be reprimanded for asking it openly. But still, he felt that cautiousness in his gut, because this was a _second-guessing_ sort of question and he had learned in his years with Voldemort that people did not usually appreciate them.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Devlin?"

"Why is Draco Malfoy free if he kidnapped me?"

**Yes, I am evil. Yes, I just HAD to stop it here! :D :D**

**UPCOMING: **

Severus Snape was like most Death Eater's (once a Death Eater always a Death Eater - the mark proved it). They all _tried_ to be like Grandfather - cold and distant - but they all failed on some level or another. If one watched them closely enough, one could see the emotions flicker across their faces or eyes - gone in the next blink of one's eyes.

**PLEASE REVIEW! THANKS!**


	17. Legilimenecy

Harry wasn't sure how to answer the question. He wasn't sure he could physically pull himself from his shock enough _to _answer. It wasn't the kind of shock that one experienced when surprised, but rather the shock one experienced when something they have been expecting for a while - looking around every corner for it's appearance - finally shows itself. You jump in your skin even though you _knew_ it was coming for you. Harry felt as though someone had physically knocked the wind out of him.

"I-"

Alexandra was looking over at him intently and Harry felt himself paling and sputtering and looking around for the answer - as if he would find it in the boys expectant face.

"It is my fault he is," he managed to say eventually. His boy already probably knew - Voldemort had probably thrown it into his face more than once how Harry had screwed it all up. It had been bad enough when he couldn't imagine Devlin living with Voldemort (when he imagined him alive it was always away from Voldemort), but now that he knew he had been with the monster, around other Death Eaters...

He felt his heart squeezing until his blood felt cold. How many times had Devlin had to see Malfoy? How many times had he needed to take an order from the bastard? Had Voldemort let the man lay a hand on Devlin?

He felt sick, but he swallowed the bile rising rapidly so that he could look at Devlin and _answer_ him. He couldn't fail at this.

He expected to find angry confirmation on the boys face, but instead there was a deepening frown of confusion.

"Because you didn't get him?" He asked and whether it was Harry's imagination or the boys intention his voice sounded childish for a moment.

"No," he said, swallowing, "because I went and beat him up without following protocol. I let-" Alexandra had gathered Emma and was bringing her up to bed, but Harry didn't feel guilty and he knew Alexandra wasn't upset at him. This was more important. "I let my emotions get in the way, Devlin. I- I hunted him down. That was when he told me...told me you had been killed and I-"

His hands were shaking and he clasped them together, staring at them mindlessly.

"I'm so sorry I-"

"He told me you never did anything," said the voice, still small and childish and _nervous_. There was a tiny hand on his too-tightly clasped hands and there was magic in the tiny fingers, easing his muscles until they stopped shaking. Harry looked up, expecting to see a boy who had no idea what he was doing. "Shaking hurts," he said instead and Harry knew once more - as he had always known - that Devlin was extremely brilliant.

He also knew, now more than ever in the time that he had come to know Devlin _again_ that he was different than the man he resembled - it would not have occurred to Voldemort to comfort someone else. This would become one of those memories of his that he would remember forever, like the birthday this same boy had thrown for his grandmother when he was tiny. Part of him wanted to rush to his feet and rush to Geoffrey and make him see this. _Ha, not my boy anymore? _He would say, half cruelly but with a smile on his face that he just wouldn't be able to tame. _Maybe he was only ever acting like another boy!_

But he knew that wasn't really true. Voldemort had made Devlin's edges 'rough', but he hadn't gotten to the boys core - how close he had come had yet to be seen, however.

He wanted to gather the boy in his arms, but he knew it wouldn't be appreciated and instead he chose to simply be content with the contact his son was willing to share with him.

"I'm sorry," he said, somehow knowing he was seeking redemption for so much more than just Malfoy.

Devlin's lips were tight and he shook his head a little bit.

"I would have beat Malfoy up too, if I could have," he said after a moment, but all Harry could here for that second was the lack of acceptance to his apology. Even so, he knew he would have to _prove_ his value to Devlin, over and over and over again. "Did you make him bleed, at least?"

There was a glint and a snarl and it reminded him of those "rough edges" that his boy hadn't had when he was little. He thought of denying the question in it's entirety, or denying that yes, he had - but then he thought of how the child would perceive his lack of information. He had grown up with Death Eater's who would have talked about this kind of thing like Emma would talk about a friend who hadn't shared some toy with her at school. This was _normal_ for Devlin and if Harry denied him, he would think Harry just wasn't _capable_.

"It was only my name that kept me out of a holding cell," he said shakily. He was glad for once that Alexandra wasn't there and he tried to squash the part of him that knew she was possibly listening from the steps.

"I don't like him," he said with some satisfaction in his voice.

Harry wanted to ask if Malfoy had ever hurt him, but he found the question sticking to his throat, because if Devlin chose to _answer_ Harry didn't know what stupid thing he would do.

"Me, neither," he said instead, knowing he was being a coward. Devlin looked at him oddly for a moment and Harry knew he had seen his cowardice too.

"Geoffrey didn't like him either," the child said, a mere whisper - as if he were revealing some deep secret. And it was such that even though he hadn't asked his question he got his answer, because he had come to understand that Geoffrey cared about his son and was neutral to most other things. Someone who had hurt Devlin, Harry strongly suspected, would have ended up on Geoffrey's 'dislike' list. He felt himself shiver.

"Does he know you don't like him?" He asked, feeling a bit of his bravery coming back to him. The boy had revealed so little, seemingly so frightened of what Voldemort would think of his betrayals, that Harry suspected his hatred for Malfoy wasn't really a secret at all.

"He knows."

Harry nodded.

OoOoOoO

"Come in."

The voice behind the door was cool with an edge of impatience that reminded Dubhán of Grandfather. He watched as Alexandra pushed the door open. She had dragged him all the way here and she reached behind to finish the job. He had every intention of making this as difficult for them as possible. He did not want to be here. He pulled his arm away from her before she could grasp it.

Difficult was one thing, but looking weak in front of someone who was going to rip his mind apart was another. He sauntered into the room, hands in his pocket, strides short and sharp.

Severus Snape was like most Death Eater's (once a Death Eater always a Death Eater - the mark proved it). They all _tried_ to be like Grandfather - cold and distant - but they all failed on some level or another. If one watched them closely enough, one could see the emotions flicker across their faces or eyes - gone in the next blink of one's eyes.

Severus Snape was surprised. Dubhán tried to reason out _why_ he was surprised. His sharp eyes connected with Alexandra's body and realization came suddenly to Dubhán. Severus Snape had not expected Alexandra. Potter, then?

"Did your husband decide he didn't want to spend his evening in my presence?" He stood and wrapped his cloak around him, crossing his arms in what was meant to be an imposing manner. Dubhán didn't find him that imposing at all. Bella could be imposing. Dwalish could make one's skin crawl. Draco could make Dubhán's blood boil. Voldemort could make one feel like the world was crumbling around them and they should welcome death.

In light of his experiences, Severus Snape seemed like just a man, trying to be something he wasn't any longer. He might still have the mark. He might still have the memories and mind of a Death Eater, but he lacked the glint and the aura. He was by no means a light wizard, but the darkness in his magic was receding from disuse.

"No, I decided _you_ wouldn't want to spend your evening in _his_ presence," she said kindly, smiling. Dubhán didn't doubt the authenticity of her smile. He had heard the argument last night about who should take him. He still wasn't sure how she had won.

"I see." Dubhán guessed this was his way of saying 'you're right', since otherwise he surely would have made her sharply aware of her mistake. He crossed his arms imposingly once more, a scowl creeping onto his face like a thunderstorms slow approach. "And what, pray-tell is your intention to do with _your_ evening?"

Alexandra blinked and allowed herself a smile that Dubhán had seen hundreds of times before on men who knew they were about to give you news you would despise but didn't care - or perhaps even expected to feel pleasure telling you.

"I plan to finish off a report. I will work in the corner and stay out of your way."

Severus looked as if someone had made him swallow a sour past-date Pepper-up potion.

"Surely the brat is old enough that he doesn't need his mother within reach." Dubhán wanted to verbally agree, but instead he stayed perfectly still and made his face remain perfectly blank. He wasn't going to give this man - who would soon be tearing apart his mind - anything to work on. More than half of him expected this was merely a way for them to get information about Voldemort without outright torturing him. Perhaps the lady (who had argued for this and implanted the idea in the man's head) felt differently about making him talk about Voldemort's secrets than Harry did.

"It is either me sitting here, or Harry." She made to rise from a seat she had already pulled into a corner. "I can call him, if you would like, of course."

There was that expired Pepper-Up Potion expression.

"That will be unnecessary," he drawled. Alexandra smirked knowingly at Snape.

Snape turned away from her, his attention coming to rest upon Dubhán, who in turn fought his internal instant to _show_ his feelings upon his face. He wouldn't give this man anything to work with.

"Do you know why you are here?"

He didn't answer. An answer would inevitably reveal_ something_ and so instead he kept his face blank, made himself blink after every one of the man's words so that he didn't give away a clue by blinking on a particular one, and made his body remain still, no matter how much his nose had begun to itch. He concentrated on the feel of the turtle neck shirt he had been forced to wear because his button up shirts hadn't been returned with the regular laundry. He smelled the air around him, trying to identify the last potion that had been brewed in here.

"I asked you a question," Snape drawled, trying to sound like a Death Eater again - trying to _scare_ him into answering. _Pish_, thought Devlin, unfazed. Where was the wand? Where was _Crucio? _Where was the blood, the bruises, the tightness around his neck? Where was the _true_ intimidation?

And then he felt it, like a touch of cool fog, _inside of his mind_. He knew this feeling like he knew the back of his eyelids. He kept his face impassive, but his eyes averted from Snape's and broke the connection.

"Ah, so you _are _aware of what we are here for and how it works," Snape hissed. Of course he knew, he said inside of his head, but outside he was _nothing, nothing, nothing_. Just a boy without a name, without any memories, dressed in grey slacks and a blue turtleneck sweater. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Devlin..." it was the lady and he knew if he turned there would be a look of pleading written plainly on her face - so he didn't look. There was no need to look for things you already knew. "Devlin _talk_ to him."

But he didn't, because wasn't it enough that he was _here_ and he hadn't used the wand they had given back to him to run away while they went through the floo? He was _here_ and they could do as they pleased to him but he wasn't doing _anything_. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"I can do this without her cooperation," Snape drawled. Lying. Liar. Trying to make him afraid. Just a man. No Crucio. No blood. No bruises. No broken bones. All he could do was get into his head - but he was _used_ to that. He just wouldn't look.

But then he saw it - a slender black wand being drawn out of the man's robes.

What did _that_ have to do with mind games?

His eyes flicked up to the man's eyes in a moment of un-thinking.

"Legimency!" The man shouted and it was like nothing Devlin had felt before. There was no subtly. There was no cool fog. He felt his breath leave his lungs in one silent cry.

It was as if his mind were a pile of parchments stacked neatly on top of a desk and Snape was in there, standing above the papers and rifling through them at his pleasure.

He should look away - _break the connection_ - except Snape's eyes were gone. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't what it was like. This whole-consuming-

_A chill passed through him abruptly and for a moment he was standing outside his tent at the camp. _

He tried to shake himself - felt himself shaking.

_The ground is cold. He is close to the ground. He is a wolf, creeping along the ground. _**_Sneaking_****. **_Trying to get somewhere important. Trying to get to-_

**_NO!_**

He felt his mind shove back violently - something he had never known his mind _could _do. It felt almost physical - he could feel that rush of adrenaline as he would have, had he actually reached out and shoved him.

He growled and his wolf came forward and he _felt_ his memories pulse erratically as it expelled Snape.

He could see Snape again - his dark unending eyes staring at him intently. He didn't look away, because right now he knew - somehow he knew - that he had nothing to fear in that moment. His wolf was there, ready to protect him.

"Your eyes are amber," Snape said, as if were simply a casual observation said in the same tone in which he might have said 'you're sweater is blue'.

"Yes," he growled, his fists clenched at his side, his jaw clamped so tightly that he could feel the pressure of the bones grinding together as he forced them apart to let the word escape.

"Using your feralness - while obviously effective - will not work. It is a one-trick Hippogriff- do you know what that means?"

"It means," he said, still speaking through his clenched teeth, making every word deliberately cruel-sounding. "That you expect to be able to stop my feralness from _humiliating_ you next time."

"Who knew one of Potter's children could be so...sardonic. I must confess I thought he was capable of fathering only gibbering bubbling foolish children."

It was a taunt - he had heard many. It was pathetic, even so. He let it slide away from his thoughts as unimportant.

"Now," Snape said, crossing his arms again. He had tucked his wand away, but Dubhán was unmoved. The man had once been a high ranking Death Eater and Dubhán knew one thing that _never left_ was the deftness of drawing one's wand. "If you will refrain from your feral inclinations this time, we will try again. _You_ have to learn to do this, not count on brute strength from your wolf."

Could he do this? Could he protect the secrets they were so obviously seeking?

_Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what has to be done. _

He nodded to himself.

He could do this. He was Dubhán - heir to Lord Voldemort _and_ Harry Potter. Survivor of Crucio. The only boy who could make Voldemort smile. He could do this.

"One, two, three - Legilimenecy!"

The room swayed and he felt an impending fear in his mind. He breathed in and out, trying to force the fear out of his mind. He wouldn't be afraid. Fear was where it all started and he wouldn't allow it to begin. Fear was simply his mind _imagination_ and there was no reason to allow it to exist at all. Fear, unlike danger, was not real. He had a _choice_ to be afraid and he simply wouldn't choose to be.

But he quickly realized that the fear wasn't completely under his control, because it wasn't attached to his present state at all.

Snape's mind was like a thick fog; like misty soldiers marching into his territory. He pretended there was an army inside of his own mind - ready to protect him. Except that his army faltered and failed against Snape's army and Snape gains access.

And he realizes where the fear is from.

_"Crucio." Pain. It is inside him. It is on his skin. In his eyes. On his lips. In his bones and their marrow. It is _**_everywhere. _**_He can feel it searing his nerves as it rushes through him. It's in his mind and he can hardly think of anything but it, the pain. His limbs want to thrash around. He makes them tense and tries desperately to keep command over them…he must not scream._

Then something _pulsed_ inside of the memory and it faltered - a bit of the color drained away and it became less _real_ and more _dream-like_ in it's quality. Severus Snape was standing in the middle of the tent and the Death Eater's who should have been cheering were frozen around them.

Snape looked around, seemingly curious.

_'Do you really want to do this again, Devlin?' _Snape asked, his voice a mere whisper that reverberated like a shout.

'_No,' _he said, because who would.

Snape came close to him, his hooked nose mere inches from his much younger face.

'_This is what he will do to you again, Devlin. You know it is. Even if you remain loyal to him he will _suspect_ and when he delves into your mind he will find _something_ - even a tiny thing - with which he will not agree...' _

He swallowed. Snape looked around again.

_'There will be no surprise to save you then, Devlin. No third chance.' _

Another swallow.

'_Why do it again, if you don't have too? You _**had**_ to survive this - I understand - but you don't have to again. You can learn how to play the game he does - keep your secrets to yourself. Remain, in his eyes, the loyal boy you know you are in your heart.' _

He looked up at Snape his lips suddenly dry, his throat suddenly raw and painful.

_'Right now, however, it is time for you to _**stop screaming**_, child.' _

Screaming? But he wasn't screaming. Snape lifted his wand and suddenly he felt the true weight of his body - _real_ again.

"Devlin!" It was the lady, shouting. He wondered idly why she was shouting, until he realized that he was on his knees, with his head thrown back, screaming. She was shouting over him. He collapsed.


	18. Scars

**I know it's not much, but since I have time (yay holiday), I thought maybe you'd have time too and like a spot of reading. :) **

The Death Eater was screaming again.

It had become something of a pattern at night and it was with a large amount of automaticity that Sirius rolled out of bed, threw his robe on over his boxers, and trekked down the hallway to the room the Death Eater occupied. They couldn't spare a second person to help him watch the criminal forever and while the orb did the trick - they watched several safe houses this way too, it couldn't wake a person up from a nightmare.

He thought he was so well past the point of wanting to stab the Death Eater while he lay screaming in his sleep that he had almost become to _pity _the man. He turned the knob, shuffled into the room and batted the orb away from his path. A firm shake was all the Death Eater needed before was sitting up sharply, his eyes alert if weary.

"You were screaming," Sirius said, his voice rough and gravelly from sleep. Girls said he sounded sexy like this, but he hadn't had one say that since the Death Eater had come to live with him. Still, he'd do anything for Harry and his children - and Harry had told him if any harm came to Geoffrey Devlin would crack irreparably; so they kept him here.

The Death Eater nodded. He never told Sirius what he was dreaming about and Sirius never asked. It was why Sirius froze with his hand on the door knob when the Death Eater cleared his throat.

"Thank you. He was having a nightmare."

He was?

And suddenly it made sense. It wasn't the hardened Death Eater having childish nightmares - it was a nine year old boy.

"Do you...do you get to see what he sees?"

"No, but I get hazy sensations. They are more than enough," he said and Sirius caught a shiver run through his body.

"What are they about?" Sirius asked, his hand still on the knob, making sure his eyes weren't looking too closely at the Death Eater.

"I am convinced he would be rather upset if I told you," the man said after a moment.

"I suppose," Sirius said, shrugging, but then he turned the knob, left the room and shuffled back into his own bed.

_Devlin's nightmares. _

He knew he'd feel differently the next time the man screamed.

OoOoOoOoO

Dubhán could take it no more.

That stupid dolly, _crying_.

Alexandra was in the kitchen the table, possibly to escape the sound. He could hear it no matter where he went.

He was through. No matter how he felt about Emma, he was _through with the doll_.

"Make it shut up," he said to her, suddenly standing beside her. She jumped in surprise.

"She's cranky," she said, smothering it against her in a terrible attempt at comfort - even Dubhán could see how terrible an attempt it was, and he had practically no experience at what she was trying to do with the doll.

"Make it shut the fuck up," he said, his fist clenched, his tone deep and dark and demanding. A Death Eater would have jumped into action and said '_Yes, Little Dark One' _and the nickname would have been the only humor they would have shown his _order. _

But Emma wasn't a Death Eater - she was a whole frighteningly different creature.

"Mommy!" She said, her voice shrill and high, racing away from him to find the woman. "Mommy Devlin said a bad word!"

He searched back through his memory and wanted to punch the wall when he realized his mistake. It seemed so arbitrary and ironic that anyone would care about _words_.

"Devlin," came the exasperated call, but he knew it wasn't _him_ that was making her feel exasperated - it was the stupid doll. It was _torture. _

He felt his magic boiling as he stomped into the kitchen. Felt it like a hot sting across his skin.

_Crying_.

It started crying again, just as he entered the room.

His bit his tongue.

"Devlin, we talked about those words," the lady said, rubbing at her temples.

"Let's talk about the stupid doll too," he said, pointing an accusing finger at the thing. Emma put her nose in the air. The thing was still crying and she didn't look as if she _cared_.

Well he cared.

"First we will talk about your language," the lady said, seemingly trying to will herself not to kill the doll either.

Talk about his language? About his language?

Why him first? Why punish him before the stupid inanimate _toy_? Why not shut it the fuck up first?

He saw red.

The doll was yanked out of Emma's arms, pulled into the air, and crushed. It crashed to the floor, a small round ball of cloth.

Alexandra looked horrified, Emma began to cry, and all Devlin could think was that he _could_ think and that it had finally stopped. He did not like crying. Especially now, as he approached the full moon and could _hear _more sharply than ever.

But then the next moment there was an odd sensation across his chest and Emma had stopped crying. She was looking at him. From under his shirt began to crawl hundreds of ants.

For one flickering second he felt impressed.

Then he was tearing off his shirt frantically because they were _biting him_.

For Emma's part, she looked horrified as well - but Dubhán felt no consolation.

He whipped out his wand, some of the ants still crawling on his discarded shirt, and uttered a charm to kill them. Death Eater's had taught him the spell years ago, but he had never tried to kill more than one of them at a time.

"Let me help," Alexandra said, trying to get close enough to his frantic figure. In a second she had cleared them all off and vanished his shirt - he was thankful since he wasn't sure he'd want to put it back on even if she had cleaned it a hundred times with magic.

"Thanks," he said to her. When he rounded on Emma to tell her off it was to find her staring at him wide-eyed.

"What?" He demanded, advancing. Of course he wasn't aware of it right now - not in the moment and in this mindset - but he was hovering over her (making her aware of their differences in strength), just as Voldemort often did to him. She shook her head, licked her lips - looked _confused_. She was staring at him like something was _wrong_ with him. "_What_?"

"What...what happened to you?" She said and for a moment he thought she was talking about his actions. He was just about to snap at her when she lifted a hand and pointed a finger at his chest.

He took a breath to stop the flush before it covered his cheeks. Took another to cover up the swallow and the sting. Took a third so that he could make himself scowl.

"There is a...snake..." She frowned. "Did you draw it?"

He growled at her so that he wouldn't instinctively cover up the _scar_ on his stomach. A different pair of pants might have covered it, but not these muggle _jeans_. He practically _flinched_ when she came close enough to touch it.

And then he realized why Alexandra hadn't been curious enough to investigate in Emma's observation - she was busy looking at his back. He swung around to face her, hiking up the pants to cover the thin strokes of dark magic that made up the snake. There were tears streaming down her face.

"Stop it!" He shouted, unable to quell the _humiliation_ that he felt. There was nothing worse in his mind than humiliation. "Stop looking at me!"

He fled from her and Emma. Fled from the crumbled up doll. Fled from their eyes and their judgements. Fled from the humiliation that he had once been weak enough to _let himself be hurt_.

She came to the door and begged him to come out, but he just shouted at her to go away.

It was hours later that Harry came home. He knew it was him, because instead of begging he knocked on the door gently. Dubhán didn't answer him. He didn't feel it would be right to shout at him - he hadn't been there in the heat of humiliation.

"Your mum is worried," he said, and it sounded as if he had sat down with his back to the door. "I'm not entirely sure what about."

For a moment he thought she hadn't told him.

"I knew he hurt you," Harry continued. "I knew you would have scars, Devlin. Their nothing to be ashamed about. We're family - your mum wasn't judging you for them. It just reminded her that those things had happened to you and...that made her sad."

He had seen the judgement in her eyes - especially in Emma's eyes.

"_He_ didn't do that to me," he said, loud enough to make sure it had carried from his bed to beyond the door. "He wouldn't have done that to me. He tried to fix it, but he couldn't make it all go away."

"Just to make sure - you mean Voldemort, right?" The voice was hesitant and unsure.

"Yes," he said.

"Then who did?"

"I thought you didn't want to be stupid again, sir," he said, knowing the man would understand. Knowing he wouldn't need to admit it as obviously as giving a name. He heard a curse and the shuffling of feet. He raced to the door. The man was pulling on his white robe, walking away.

"You're leaving," he said and it came out sounding like an accusation. The man froze suddenly and turned slowly. "Why are you leaving me?"

He hadn't meant to allow the 'me' to reside there - to hang in the air between them.

"I could arrest him, Devlin. I could put him away for life-"

"You'd need me to admit it was him," he said reasonably. "But I won't do that."

"Devlin-"

"I'm not a snitch. I don't need him locked away in Azkaban."

"Devlin-"

"Because right now, he's in a much better hell."

Potter paused and simply stared at him.

"It will be _his_ job to get me back - I know it will be," he didn't mention how he knew or that he had seen him at the bookstore. "But I won't go with him and every time he fails..."

He couldn't stop the smirk.

"Don't you see, sir? I've condemned him to a far better hell than you could with your shiny badge."

**Up next: A Harry/Devlin discussion about scars and minds. Let me know how I did...I'm not absolutely in love with this chapter and think I might need to fiddle with it a bit. **


	19. Dancing Around

Oh, Harry _understood_, but he also understood that Devlin really _shouldn't_ understand his own words. It wasn't what a nine year old boy was supposed to be thinking about. He licked his lips and stopped himself from making a comment that would just make Devlin stop talking to him. He wanted to hear anything the boy was thinking about and if he made the boy second-guess talking to him he would never learn anything about his son.

"He tortured you," he said instead, because he couldn't hold it all back and he felt that would be the least harmful thing to come out of his mouth. He took his robe off and settled it back on his hook. Devlin shifted and Harry saw the tip of the snake-shaped scar Alexandra had spoken to him about. He wondered sickeningly how far below his belly button it went. The boy still hadn't turned around, so Harry had yet to see the _torture marks_ that Alexandra had mentioned and called him back home early for.

"Yes," Devlin said, voice tight.

"When?" It didn't really matter, Harry told himself, but the word came out anyway.

"Before they put me in front of Grandfather," he said, as if he actually had to think. Was he lying to save Voldemort's face? "I don't know when except before Grandfather. It was dark and..." He shook his head minutely, as if to himself. "I don't remember much before I saw Grandfather."

Harry nodded, choosing the motion instead of ill-advised word's that were sure to upset Devlin.

"He wanted you to see," Devlin said softly. "He said you'd see and I thought...if I let him draw it, he'd send me back, so that you could."

It was the first time Devlin had said anything about once _wishing_ he could return and Harry fought the tears that wanted to come. He shook his own head, trying to dispel the images his mind crafted without his permission of his little Devlin, just six years old, being carved with a knife, begging for him.

"When he was done I asked him when he'd let you see and he laughed and said I would be dead when you did." Devlin's tone was lacking any emotion at all. "And then he tried to..." Another little shake. "The next time he came near me, I made my magic hurt him. He didn't like that."

He should be crying. He should be upset. He should be anything but _blank_.

_Dissociation. _

He was familiar with that word - Alexandra often accused him of dissociating himself from things in his life and he had been trained on the term for trauma victims. Recently, of course, he had heard the term again from the Mind Healer.

"It must have been very frightening," he said. He didn't ask to know more - the Mind Healer had warned about pushing for information especially if Devlin said he didn't remember. _You will deal with those in due time, in a safe environment with a trained professional - do you both understand?_

Devlin shrugged.

"I don't really remember what I felt," he said. He ran a hand across his bare stomach and up his shoulder to scratch behind his neck. He seemed to have suddenly realized he was still without a shirt. Harry could almost see the realization in his eyes that he couldn't do anything - if he turned around Harry would see even _more_.

"Your mum told me you did well with Severus," he said, hoping to alleviate some of the boys sudden discomfort by changing the subject. In reality Alexandra had said no such thing. She had worried her temples and said she'd been reading into brain trauma and been worrying all of last night and this morning that Devlin's _extreme reaction_ to Severus' entrance into his mind was possibly a side-effect of some damage suffered from the torture. Severus had been unwilling to disclose what he had seen and had said "there wasn't anything to see, something made the boy be in pain."

Harry, however, had his suspicious that Severus wasn't telling the whole truth. Perhaps the man had done something to Devlin.

Devlin laughed now, a sharp and caustic sound.

"You're lying. I don't need mind tricks to tell as much. Besides I did horrible."

"You managed to keep him out of your private thoughts, right? He went right through mine - saw some embarrassing stuff, I admit."

"_I _didn't," Devlin said, with a hint of serious curiosity. "He said my 'feralness' did."

Alexandra had described how his eyes had gone amber and he had growled at Severus.

"I didn't have a wolf to throw him out of my mind," Harry said, trying to inject some humor into the situation.

"He does that...whenever something bad happens," the boy said softly but firmly - as if he were intent to keep Harry's humor as far from this conversation as possible. "When he thinks I'm in danger, he saves me."

Harry frowned. He knew the spectrum of dissociation as well - had been trained about the minds that took it too far and created other personalities in their own mind and compartmentalized the damage.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked delicately. "About saving you?"

Those sharp green eyes looked at him intently - looking for a trap.

"I meant just what I said, and I said just what I meant," he replied tensely. Harry knew he had sensed his own worry and took it all the wrong way. "I'm not insane, sir."

Oh, he knew that. No insane child would be capable of the logic and matureness that Devlin was - the stability that he practically extruded. But Harry also knew that Devlin wasn't like every other boy his age.

"I didn't say you were," he said softly, trying to sound reassuring.

"There are lots of things people never say," he said, "but just because you haven't said it, doesn't mean you hadn't thought it."

"I wasn't thinking you were insane, either," he reassured. "But I was thinking I wanted to have a look at the cuts on your back - see if we should schedule a healer visit for them."

Devlin's brow drew together. Perhaps the transition in topic hadn't been as brilliant as it seemed to Harry in his head a split-second before he'd let it come out of his mouth.

"With all due respect-" Harry wanted to chuckle, because he knew in Devlin's mind there was very little, if any, respect due to Harry Potter "I already told you that Grandfather tried to heal them before."

Harry smiled what he hoped was his most charming smile - sometimes Harry got it right and sometimes he failed miserably. He was trying not to show the hate that always surfaced when Voldemort was the topic.

"With all due respect, Devlin," he said - and he had a lot of it for the boy and hoped he knew such "You're a clever boy who must know that someone can say they tried their hardest but really didn't."

There was that frown again, infinitesimal, hesitant, questioning - _wanting_. Harry wanted to leap into the air and cheer at the small frown that _proved_ the boy was actually _listening to him_ and what was more - considering the validity of _his_ truth!

"You can look," the boy said after a moment, that infinitesimal frown still lingering at the edges of his expression. "However, if you find that...it could be healed...it will remain my choice if it _is_ to be healed."

Harry had some scars that the Healer's had said they could make disappear and he had forbid them, so he understood. He knew what it was like to want the physical _proof_ that you really had been through all that shit and come out alive. He nodded.

"Of course."

And so it was that Devlin turned around and led Harry back into his room. Harry tried not to gasp at the marks on his back when he turned his back to him - he had seen victims of Death Eaters, but this was _his son_. He tried not to let the thought roam around in his mind that the dead boy everyone had thought was Devlin hadn't been tortured quite like this...

The marks were randomly carved onto his back. Some were caused by Dark spells specifically invented for torture (Harry recognized the burn pattern) while others were from causes he couldn't pinpoint. One looked suspiciously like a belt mark and the boy shivered when he reached out to touch it.

"Don't touch me," he snapped, but the harshness that had been there when he first came to them was almost gone. "I don't like to be touched like that."

"Like what?" Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

"Soft like that - it makes me shiver and I don't like shivering."

Harry tried to store this comment away in the recesses of his mind, but also tried not to linger on it too deeply. That was what his life was with Devlin these days - listen and observe, remember everything but try not to think about much of it at all for fear of where the thoughts would lead. Perhaps it would be _him_ who needed to schedule an appointment with the Mind Healer first.

"Are you done?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at Harry.

"Some of these are just scars I think," he said, "But others...I know some of them wont go away."

He turned around fully with that tiny frown still in place.

"I- I know I'm meant to want them to go away," he said. "But really...they're _mine_."

Harry nodded and they didn't discuss it any longer.

"Why don't you get changed and then we'll all eat lunch together?"

He nodded.

"Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think...I have some money in my pack...do you think I could get Emma a new dolly?"

"I can buy a new one with you - that sounds like a great idea. Maybe we'll ask the clerk to add some cheer charms to the new one, eh?"

They both chuckled and he nodded vigorously. He couldn't help to think of what would have happened if he had ruined one of Grandfather's things like he had Emma's doll.

OoOoOoO

They were bringing him to the ball and even though they had said they would, Dubhán was still more than a little surprised. Weren't they worried about him escaping? Weren't they worried about how he would look? How he would act? What he might _say_ (he was always saying things nearly-ten-year-olds weren't supposed too, apparently)?

"There will be wards. No minor child will be able to leave without their parent."

Alexandra answered his quiet questions calmly as she put her hair up. It was brighter and more beautiful than ever, against the deep blue of her gown.

"Go help your father and _please_ tell him to comb his hair!"

They didn't often address themselves as his parents, seemingly allowing _him_ to set the pace, but she had just been talking to Emma and he shrugged it off as that. They were endlessly calling themselves 'mommy' and 'daddy' in front of _her_.

Harry Potter was in his room, setting the robes Dubhán would need to be dressed in on Dubhán's bed. He was already dressed himself in robes of black and white. When Dubhán looked at the robes on the bed it was to find that they were exactly the same, except that Potter's were a bit more flashy and had some badges hanging off the shoulder.

Potter had already seen his scars, so Dubhán shed his clothing down to his underwear and tried to ignore Potter's eyes on his body, trying to trace the _snake_. No one saw the whole of it anymore. Dubhán never let them, but he could tell from Potter's hooded gaze when he turned after putting on pants, that Potter had realized he'd have to have been completely naked.

He pulled on the button up shirt and felt his fingers slipping into old routines.

"I can help-"

Potter never finished, because Dubhán was already turning the tie in his hands deftly, seconds away from a perfect knot. When he was through he went to the mirror and did a check. He ran his fingers across the collar of the shirt, making sure it was all tucked perfectly against his neck.

"You've dressed up before," Potter said, with a bit of admiration.

"Yes, sir," he said simply, preferring not to go into too much detail. He had never been in formal robes before, although he had seen others wearing them. Still, wearing them made him feel more like Dubhán and less like Devlin than he had in a long time.

"You look handsome," Harry said, coming up behind him. Now Dubhán could see both of them in the mirror. He didn't really look anything like his father, except perhaps the way their eyes crinkled when they smiled. Not that Dubhán could be entirely certain - Potter didn't seem to have any pictures of himself as a child around the house.

"I look just like him," he said softly, snatching the comb off his dresser and running it through his hair.

"Yes, quite a bit," Harry said and it was only the quick momentary dart of his eyes that spoke of any discomfort about the subject. Then those green eyes were back, searching his face in the mirror, their intensity plain for Dubhán to see. "You look a bit like my mum, too. Molly says so."

He turned around.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "After the ball, I'll show you some pictures, alright?"

He nodded and tried to shove the whispered voice that he shouldn't care, because she was a _mudblood,_ out of his head.

OoOoOoO

Emma must have asked a hundred times from the beginning of the week until now when the ball would start, so he wasn't overly impressed with what the little girl said, when their mother announced they were leaving _now_.

"But, it's not even four in the afternoon and you said the ball starts at seven and - well it won't take that long right?" Her nose was scrunched up in concentration and he was surprised she had managed to structure the question in a semi-well-composed sentence.

"We're stopping at Sirius' house first," she replied calmly to the girl. Dubhán tried to stop the annoyed scowl from spreading across his face even though he felt it in his bones.

"Have you ever been through the floo on your own?" Emma asked as Harry prepared for Alexandra and Emma to go through. "Freddie says he has and he's your age!"

"No," he said and she seemed taken aback. He had never actually _seen _a floo connection (that he could remember anyways) before coming to be here.

"But you're _nine_," she said, her face scrunched up again. "Mama said so."

Dubhán blinked calmly in the face of her overly-dramatic reaction. He wondered what she would do if she saw a man bleeding on the ground, dead. Would this be the reaction or would it be something so much _more_ that he couldn't even picture it now.

Thankfully, Alex saved him by tugging on Emma and urging her through the floo.

Next was the man and he.

He tumbled out of the floo, readying himself to _be good_ as he stood, certain he'd be facing the annoying man once more.

The annoying man was there. The werewolf was there. Emma was hiding behind their mother's legs, but not from the figures she was surely familiar with.

He hadn't realized _this_ was where they were keeping Geoffrey.

"Hello, Dubhán," he said softly. He was dressed decently - in some of the annoying man's left overs if Dubhán made a guess - but he still looked as gaunt and sleep deprived as before.

Emma looked behind herself to see his reaction to the stranger and he felt a thrill run through his veins at the idea that _she would follow his lead_.

"Hello, Geoffrey," he replied smoothly. "They didn't tell me you'd be here."

"Did they even tell you where here is?" He asked, humorously. The question, however, brought Dubhán up short and he paused. No they hadn't and he knew why they probably hadn't. This was a safe house to them, whether it was often used for this sort of thing or not.

"Are you going uncle Sirius?" Emma asked tentatively.

"Nah, you know I don't like Ministry Parties," Sirius replied warmly. An ex-convict, unfairly imprisoned, Dubhán thought, probably wouldn't.

Dubhán went to Geoffrey and the man bent down to touch his shoulders. Dubhán hadn't seen the man in a long time and the nervousness that he felt about the party worked it's way through his body until his arms were reaching up, curling around Geoffrey's neck. Geoffrey stood up with him there, their mouths right by each others ears, ready to share something only for them.

"You'll be a smart boy, right?" Geoffrey asked and Dubhán felt himself laughing softly.

"You don't care if I'm good?" He asked.

"Absolutely not. If someone comes after you, you _hurt_ them before you go with them, understand, bad boy? Be smart."

"He made the bastard take the job," he whispered into Geoffrey's ear. "He tried to steal me at a bookstore but I..." He turned his head closer to Geoffrey. "I decided to be _smart_ and make him pay."

There was laughter tickling his ear and the slight beard that Geoffrey had grown scratched against his cheek.

"That's my clever little wolf," Geoffrey murmured.

"Do you bet he made him scream?" Dubhán asked, falling into a pattern of speech that he didn't dare fall into at Harry Potter's house. "Do you bet he Crucio'd him?"

"Probably."

To them this wasn't morbid. It fell out of Dubhán's mouth like Emma might have asked if a mean friend had gotten their favorite toy taken away or put in timeout. It was his culture and environment and he felt that same power flowing back into his body. He was Dubhán, the Little Dark One, the _Heir_ to the most feared Dark Lord in history.

"Be careful, Dubhán," Geoffrey whispered, as if he could _feel_ that power seeping back into him. Dubhán nodded and Geoffrey put him down.

When he turned around it was to see the lady wearing a neutral expression and Harry Potter wearing one that was dark and foreboding. If he knew more, if he hadn't always been ready to read the worst and deadliest in other's faces, he might have known the look of sad envy for what it was. Remus was frowning. They all went into the kitchen for a spot of tea before leaving, but Potter, Remus, and Geoffrey hung back. Dubhán eyed them as a group, but then Geoffrey spotted him and made a shooing motion. Dubhán knew a dismissal and scampered off before he could be told off. He had promised himself he'd be 'good', or as Geoffrey called it 'smart'.

"What did you say to Devlin?" Harry asked as Remus lingered. Harry didn't mind Remus lingering although it was a bit odd, since Remus wasn't usually the nosy one - Sirius filled the spot quite nicely.

"Nothing you wouldn't agree with, I hope," Geoffrey replied, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Your daughter is adorable."

From anyone else Harry might have smiled and thanked them, but even though Geoffrey didn't seem the type, Harry felt a shiver run up his spine. Geoffrey must have seen, because he smiled with what Harry could only think to call wicked disgust.

"I never had any interest," Geoffrey said. "I stayed away from those sorts of games. It was one of the benefits of being Dubhán's guard, I admit."

Harry frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"For all intents and purposes the Dark Lord took me out of the normal rankings to be the boys nanny - I didn't torture people, I didn't go on raids, I didn't fight for my placement - I was Dubhán's guard and _that_ was my ranking in and of itself. I also 'managed' the other werewolves, but I suspect the Dark Lord gave me that assignment to help with Dubhán's assimilation into their ranks - so that Dubhán wouldn't only be identified as 'the Dark Lord's', but also as their leader's."

Whenever Harry learned of an action Voldemort had devised or partaken in that might have looked (for it couldn't really be) as if he were _protecting _Dubhán, he felt his head spin. Sometimes he thought he hated Death Eater's more than Voldemort because each of them had had the _choice_ and it was easier, sometimes, to think of Voldemort simply as _being what he was_ rather than a human who also made a conscious choice. Harry had always tried not to think of _why_ Voldemort was the way he was, because Harry thought if he identified with the monster (orphan, lonely, bullied?, hungry, '_freak'_, '_devil', _green eyes, dark hair...) that he wouldn't be able to do the deed when it came time. If he felt something for the monster then it would be him who perished. He also tried very hard not to think too much over his logic, because it always brought him back, in a round-about fashion, to the idea that he, just like Voldemort, really did believe emotions to be _weakening_.

"Malfoy is responsible for 'rescuing' the child," the ex-Death Eater said softly. Apparently during Harry's drifting thoughts he had asked Remus to put up a silencing charm, because Harry could feel it buzzing around them. "Will he be attending?"

Harry made a face.

"Yeah, but he won't be near our table and that's where I intend to keep Emma and Devlin. I'd leave them home...but."

"You want to be there together to defend him."

"Yes," Harry said, thinking of the past night with Voldemort and his wards. For all he knew the man was there each night. Devlin would be safer with Harry and Alex at the party, where Dumbledore and his team would be if Harry needed the help. He couldn't leave the child with Remus and Sirius on a night Voldemort _knew_ he'd be gone. So he'd leave his house completely empty. He already planned to have Zee come spend the night with Sirius.

OoOoO

"Give me your wand," Potter murmured by his ear as they neared the Ministry. Dubhán felt himself stiffen. He had thought - had counted on - that the man would let him keep it. What dangers would befall him without it? What if Malfoy was there? What _fun_ would he have before he brought him to Grandfather, because Dubhán knew he would be useless (if only for the paralyzing fear he knew he would feel) against Malfoy without a wand. "Come on, Devlin. Just for a minute. Quick. I'll get it past the wards for you."

Oh.

Did he trust Potter?

There was a man outside a little building that stood across the street from the Ministry. On any other day Dubhán thought it was probably some ordinary muggle building (for what he didn't know), but today there was a muggle-dressed wizard accepting 'tickets'. Anyone traveling to the Ministry this way would be required to be dressed in muggle clothing. All of their clothing was acceptable or transfigured temporarily. Emma's brilliant blue dress had been transfigured to be slightly less 'brilliant' and his mother's gown had turned into what she called an 'evening dress'. The badges were gone from Potter's shoulder for the moment.

Time was running out.

He deftly snuck the wand into Potter's hand, who just as deftly slid it into his pocket.

"Mr. Potter!" Said the man taking the tickets. There was a large smile on his face. "How are you?"

"Well, thank you Gregory. Having fun?"

"Oh yes. This is much more fun than the security desk. Do you have any accessories?"

Dubhán had a feeling that he meant wands, and Harry nodded and withdrew both of the wands. For a moment as the man handled his wand, Dubhán could only freeze and feel his heart rushing, so quickly that he could hear it only in his ears.

"Backups tonight, hmm?" The man asked conversationally. Harry smiled tightly.

"I have my son with me," he said and a hand snuck onto Dubhán's shoulder and brought him forward. Dubhán let Potter because right now Potter had control over his wand. The man beamed.

"Devlin Potter! It's been forever. I heard the news and - well I won't dampen the spirits of tonight but it's a pleasure to see you again, lad."

He acted as if they had met before, but Dubhán had no recollection of him at all.

"Of course, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you as well. I apologize for not recognizing you."

Charm and manners came easily to Dubhán. They had both been things Voldemort appreciated and, like his Grandfather, they were both things that seemed almost innate to Dubhán - more the first than the latter.

There was a sad tight smile on the man's face, as if he understood something Dubhán could not see him understanding and he gave a little shake of his head.

"No need to say anything, lad," he whispered as he passed the wands back to Potter and ushered them in.

"Did I do something wrong?" Dubhán asked Potter, surprising himself by seeking the man's opinion. Voldemort understood reason like Potter understood emotions.

"It's just...you never met any children your age, did you?"

Dubhán frowned.

"No. What would I have done with them, _played_? There are more important things to do." The words were all his Grandfather's, but they filled him with a purposeful feeling. When he would go over to Malfoy's manor he would occasionally run into a boy there and Voldemort told him he could 'play' with the boy - but Dubhán never had. Voldemort had always smiled when he refused. Dubhán's gut had always clenched at even the thought of speaking to the miniature Malfoy.

"You don't act like most boys your age, is all," Harry said kindly, smiling at him in a reassuring way.

"I'm not like most boys," Dubhán replied, "So that would make sense."

He strode ahead of Potter to catch Emma's hand. He had to make sure she was safe.

OoOoOoO

Dubhán's had never been to a party before, or the Ministry - at least not that he could properly remember. There were a rush of people inside, all surrounding him. _Always be aware of your surroundings_. It was almost impossible in this crowd. He felt swarmed and overwhelmed.

He made his face make the muscular movements to appear at ease. Sometimes it helped, just to be conscious of how small things like his lips, brow, and cheeks had to move in coordination to achieve a particular expression.

A man came out of the sea of people, a child in his wake.

"Harry!" He said, as they exchanged an embrace. _"He's here, I checked for you." _

They hadn't meant for anyone but themselves to hear, but Dubhán heard, because he hears almost everything.

"Hello," the boy said that had followed in the man's wake. "I'm Thomas, but you can call me Tom - everyone does." Dubhán peered carefully at him - from his sandy blonde hair to his curious brown eyes. He looked like nothing but a boy - windblown and uncomfortable in his fancy robes.

"Hello, Thomas. I'm Devlin," he said, making his mouth form the foreign-yet-all-too-familair name - he had promised Geoffrey he would be smart tonight - and shook the boys offered hand. The boy gave him an odd look at hearing his own full name, but Dubhán knew he'd never be able to call the boy _that_ other name. Everything about it - even the boy himself saying it, made him want to shiver.

"My Da says we're going to Hogwarts together," the boy said. "I have an older sister - she's in Ravenclaw."

Dubhán wasn't sure what to say, but a moment of silence proved that the boy was more than willing to fill in his uncertainty.

"What house do you think you'd be sorted into?"

"Slytherin," he replied easily, because now it had been taken into the hypothetical, where Dubhán was more than comfortable conversing. He's heard all about the houses, of course, but only from Death Eaters. Still, he was pretty sure what house he would be sorted into and it hasn't got anything to do with a 'want' - because if he was with the Potter's long enough to attend Hogwarts it would not be as Pureblood or The Dark Lord's Heir, but as a boy with muggle in his blood marked as a traitor.

"My Da says He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came from that house," Thomas said, a fake shiver running up his spine. But Dubhán did not know who.

"Who?" He asked, frowning. Thomas looked at him oddly, arching his brow.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Thomas said, again, more slowly this time.

"I heard you before," he said, making his tone flatter and more polite than it wanted to be. "But I don't know _who_ must not be named."

Thomas shifted on his feet and his gaze wandered. Following it, Dubhán could see that Harry and the man the boy had come with, were watching them. Harry looked entirely too skeptical and in misbelief. Dubhán wondered what he had done wrong again.

"The bad man," Thomas said softly, leaning forward - his eyes still on who Dubhán suspected was his father. Perhaps proving he still wasn't naming the man who must not be named - for what reason Dubhán could not understand. "You know..." he shrugged "my Da says you know because well...you know and..."

Dubhán drew back, possible understanding rushing through his veins. He frowned at the boy.

"Oh, I see. You don't say his name," he shrugged. "Seems sort of silly, doesn't it?"

His voice was all Dubhán and not at all Devlin - deep and dark and bemused in a caustic sort of way.

"Erm...I guess," the boy said, shifting again. He didn't say anything after that. He had an edgy look to his regard now, though. Dubhán recognized it: weariness. Dubhán imagined he had one of those glowing signs, like the ones they passed outside, hanging above him: "Devlin Potter, Harry Potter's son: spent four years with Voldemort".

Alexandra led them away from 'Martin' and 'Thomas' and to a table which was empty right now. There were family names set out around it and when the Potter's touched their seats, the names disappeared. Potter was still speaking with Martin, Dubhán watched him from his seat. When he finished he reached out to Thomas and ruffled his hair and Dubhán felt an unexpected surge of jealousy, because it was a motion he could somehow recall, but knew Potter would never dare do to him now. As the Little Dark One, it would have been fine for him to want to lash out at the boy in his jealousy, but he knew here and now as _Harry Potter's son_ and as the 'smart' boy he had promised Geoffrey he would be - he shouldn't. So instead he turned around and sat on his hands to hide the fact that he allowed his nails to dig painful into the backs of his thighs.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think. _

He is so busy chanting the mantra that it is only when Potter leans forward to whisper something in his ear that he noticed he has returned at all.

"Stay here until I get back," Harry said to him, even though Alex was sure to tell them the same thing. "You're mum is going to wait here with you two. I just have a final lap to make around the room."

Dubhán nodded stiffly and trained his eyes to Emma. He was most, and oddly least, worried about her. He had a deal - but he wasn't very confident in that deal any longer if he was honest with himself.


	20. Little Man

Dubhán had heard music before, of course. There was some that even Voldemort 'enjoyed' and played after dinner while he read over war reports in the sitting room. Dubhán only had to close his eyes in the quiet of his room at home and he would find those songs floating into his mind. They were almost all without voices and if there was a voice it was slow and soft. Nothing like the music playing now.

Dubhán may have heard music before, but _seeing_ the people preforming the music was an entirely new experience (as far as he could remember). He found his regard stuck to the band in the middle of the dance floor. They were holding some kind of instrument (yet another thing Dubhán knew about, but had not seen before) with a long handle and strings taunt against a frame that they held against their abdomen. They're fingers moved across the taunt strings deftly and with a speed Dubhán associated with dueling.

The music was loud and fast paced and the young guests were up on the floor, smiling and laughing and dancing. Dubhán had never danced like they were - there didn't seem to be a particular sequence or pattern to their steps. He watched carefully.

Emma was pouting that she wouldn't get to dance, because Harry was still 'at work' and Alexandra was reassuring her that the schedule said the band would do a final song at the end before dinner. She seemed mildly pacified.

The song ended and the guests reseated themselves and out of the dispersing crowd Dubhán saw Harry. He breathed a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Why can't I go dancing, mama?"

Dubhán had noticed that Emma called her 'mama' when she was scared or whinging.

"I already said dad would take you," Alexandra whispered.

"Is this all because your worried about the bad man taking Devlin? 'Cause I'm not him and the bad man doesn't want _me." _

Dubhán felt his heart stop for a moment. He hadn't thought Emma _knew_. His eyes swerved to hers, connecting with the blue eyes that remained innocent despite the knowledge. Alexandra had sighed in a resigned sort of way, but she was looking uncertain about how to proceed. Dubhán reached out to touch Emma's shoulder.

"Want me to show you a magic trick while we wait?"

She seemed to know what he was doing, but she agreed eagerly. He tried frantically to recall any innocent bits of magic, but things like that escaped him, because he wasn't used to magic being innocent.

_He was making pretty lights with his wand for the baby_.

The words and image floated into his head, a remembered bit of a story Voldemort had once told him to teach him to always keep his wand with him and never to trust the loyalty of anyone on just their word. The concept of the story had been far from innocent, but that bit seemed like something someone _normal_ would do for a child.

He couldn't use his wand, but he could use his hands.

Emma giggled as his fingers danced with swirling colors and he found himself smiling at her glee.

Potter came back with another man, who was in turn followed by a lady and a girl. It seemed they were designed to take the empty seats.

"Daddy! Can we go dancing now?"

Emma was out of her chair in a second. Dubhán canceled the spell on his fingers. Alexandra was staring at him with an emotion Dubhán couldn't identify, although he had seen something like it on a man's face once when they had said something in front of him they shouldn't have but Dubhán had lied to protect them. What had Geoffrey said the man must have been? _Greatful_. Perhaps that was it.

"Not yet, baby. In a tiny bit. David and I just have to talk to someone real quick, alright?" She met his words with a ferocious pout.

The lady and the girl sat down and Dubhán looked at them, because he looked at everyone. _You must always be aware of who is around you._

He could plainly see the lady - a plain if pretty woman dressed in a gown of dark grey. The girl beside her was withdrawn appearing and sat hunched in her chair with her head bowed. All Dubhán could see of her was that her hair was red - darker than Emma's, but almost the same. The hair triggered a sense of familiarity in Dubhán, but he was certain it was only because it was like Emma's.

"Maybe I won't want to dance with you," Emma was saying petulantly, "maybe I'll make Devy dance with me instead."

Potter laughed and patted her on the head and said that would be fine when he got back and Emma hopped over to him and made a show of asking for him to do another magic trick.

When Emma exclaimed over a small flower that he made in his hands and tucked in her hair (blue to match her dress), the little girl across from them looked up momentarily.

Dubhán felt the air catch in his throat and it took every single ounce of self-control he had learned in his years with Voldemort not to show his terrifying all-consuming panic. His nerves ignited and fired and it was only pure survivalistic cruelty that stopped him from seizing.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think. Write your worry in the sand. _

Her eyes were locked on him in that chaotic moment - both their eyes a little too wide, a little too still - a little too frantic. She knew. He knew she knew.

Potter had reached the table. Emma was begging to go dancing. He was hemming and hawing and it was with a desperate sense of urgency that Dubhán broke his gaze with the girl and grabbed for Emma's hands.

"I'll take you dancing," he said and he didn't wait for Potter's response.

He twirled Emma and slowly chanted the steps for her, over and over again. She was giggling and grinning from ear to ear, but he had eyes only for the table. The girl was tugging at her Mum's dress. Dubhán knew she must be telling them everything. He stayed dancing with Emma as long as she would let him.

"Once more," he begged.

But she shook her head and Dubhán let her hand go, watching her as she ran to Potter.

The little girls mum was talking to Alexandra. She must be telling her everything the little girl had told them. For one more moment her brilliant blue eyes met his green and all he could think about was them dragging her through the camp in her pretty blue dress.

He felt his insides freeze up. If he went back, he knew they would know everything.

Instead of going back to the table he ran into the crowd. He raced through the crowd, throwing his arms wide to cut through the many dancing couples, until he reached a quieter place and cowered behind a statue. It was there that the voice found him.

oOoOoOoOo

"Hello," the voice was crisp but smooth - delicate but with a lingering sense of harshness that screamed to be acknowledged. Dubhán would know the voice anywhere, and it hardly needed to whisper "Dubhán" after it's introduction for him to be certain.

He turned and was met with the ice blue eyes and white-blonde hair of his first kidnapper. He was wearing a suit more lavish than Potter's, but missing all of the regalia that a hero would be afforded, of course.

From the outside his face was both bemused and concerned and anyone who saw Dubhán cowered in a corner would think this Death Eater was helping him.

He felt panic trickling from his brain into his body and tried to squash it just as quickly. He would not be afraid. He had a _choice_. But it was harder, when it wasn't just the imagination that was fear, but the truthfulness that was _danger_.

"Hello," he managed to say, in a tone that wouldn't betray him. He felt his heart pitter-pattering in his chest.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think_. But he _was_ thinking and the thoughts were bashing around in his head, making it hard to concentrate on what needed to be attended too. Danger.

There was a rush of anger through his chest that silenced all the fear - Dubhán wasn't sure where it came from, but a deafening certainty was filling his mind, and he wasn't about to question it.

**_We're better than him_****, **this certainty said, rough and sharp around the edges. **_Be smart now!_**

"How are you doing, Mr. Malfoy?" Dubhán said, because he knew just as this man was counting on Dubhán recognizing him, it was also probably his greatest fear. Where would a child who had been with Voldemort and didn't appear to remember his own _parents_ remember this man from?

There was a micro-second frown that told Dubhán that his jab had hit its mark.

"Are you here to take me back?" He asked, lowering his voice - as if he has been properly chastised - and allowing his tone to open up and sound imploring. At the same time, he made sure he did _not_ look the man in the eyes, because he knew all too well that this man was just like Grandfather, Alexandra and Severus Snape. He knew saying anything else would be deadly. He had to play his part - had to be _smart_ rather than good.

"There are wards that would prevent that," Malfoy whispered, but Dubhán already knew that. Malfoy's hand reached out to touch his shoulder - comforting to an outsider - while his other hands slipped something into Dubhán's pocket. Dubhán knew better than to draw attention to the act. "You're Grandfather was starting to wonder about you. But you look perfectly healthy..."

"Of course I do. What good would I be for my Grandfather if I were dead. He didn't have that potion invented so that I could die."

There was an edge of equal harshness to his voice - an equal demand to acknowledge his standing and power. But Malfoy was a pureblood and as long as he felt he could kill him, he won't ever see Dubhán as more than a half-blood.

"I saw him outside my window. I tried to escape. Potter has the bite marks to prove as much."

There was a glimmer of satisfaction in Malfoy's eyes.

"I'll pass that on," he said, then he glided away into the crowd. Dubhán looked after him and missed his father's approach, which Malfoy surely hadn't.

"Devlin!" The crowd split for Harry effortlessly and he grabbed at him, bringing Dubhán against him. Dubhán could hear Potter's heart, fast and chaotic, in his chest. Fear. Harry Potter had been afraid. Dubhán had the power to make him afraid. "Why did you run off like that? You scared your mum and I half to death!"

So they didn't know. She hadn't told them.

He felt his self-resolve crumble a bit at his relief. Suddenly it wasn't fear making his own heart pound against his ribs. Fear had nothing to do with the air that suddenly felt thick and useless in his lungs. He knew if he didn't get himself together, he'd end up _crying. _In public. In front of Potter. While _Malfoy_ was surely watching.

"Get off me," he said, soft but deadly - aware of his game being compromised. Malfoy would report everything. "I didn't say you could touch me."

Potter reacted for a moment as if Dubhán had scalded him with magic, but then he seemed to right himself and realize Dubhán hadn't made a scene and he shouldn't either.

"Why did you run off?" He asked, but he was already guiding him through the crowd, looking nervous. When they arrived at the table, Dubhán understood why - Alexandra had been left alone with only Emma, the little girl, and her mother. No protection. Because Dubhán had been stupid, not smart. What did he matter if Emma was hurt?

Potter sat him down in a chair and turned it a bit so that it was facing him.

"Why did you run off?" He asked again, his eyes flickering to his, but otherwise scanning the permitter of the room.

"One of them is here," he said, because it was safer than the truth that crowded so terrifying and painfully in his chest. The little girl had her head bowed again, looking at her hands.

Potter's gaze on the crowd intensified.

"We're safer here than at home. I'm stationing someone else here permanently. God, I wish they hadn't already assigned my best men to patrol!" There was an anger in his eyes and in his tone and the little girl flinched, but Emma seemed undisturbed.

He pressed his badge and suddenly there was a youngish officer sauntering over to them with a pleasant smile on his face. Dubhán sat very still.

"I'm stationing you here, do you understand? No one outside of my list is to speak to my family tonight unless I am present."

"Yes, sir," he said and he took the seat next to Dubhán that Potter offered to him - probably so that he blended in just a bit more. He flashed Dubhán a smile while Alexandra's eyes curved across the crowd and Potter rushed to finish his patrol.

"Hey, Little Man," he said, his eyes crinkling, his teeth showing, his fingers on his wand. He was a Death Eater, but obviously Potter didn't know that. Perhaps he was truly loyal to Potter. Dubhán, however, doubted that to be true. He was a werewolf. Alexandra was eying him a bit now. Dubhán returned the smile with a minimal one of his own. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. You're really not needed."

"Don't worry Little Man, I don't mind. We wouldn't want anything scary happening, right?"

Little Man. Dubhán wanted to launch himself at the man and _hurt_ him, for his obvious taunting. Little One. Little Dark One.

"I'm positive nothing of the sort will happen," he said instead, cool and collected and with that glint in his eyes that he hoped the man recognized as coming from Voldemort.

"Do you work for my Daddy?" Emma asked, arching her body across the table so that she could see the man past Alexandra.

"Mr. Potter? Yes, I do."

"Do you fight bad people with him?" She asked, her eyes wide - hoping for a story.

"Sure. What's your name?"

"Emma," she replied promptly.

Dubhán felt his nerves flaying and when Alexandra looked away for a moment he sneered at the man.

"Emma only talks about little girl things. You don't need to talk to her," he said. He hoped the truth was evident in his narrowed gaze. _Don't you dare talk to her_.

"I'm sure she's got lots to say, Little Man. Isn't that a bit rude? You're supposed to be nice, right - that's what big brothers do."

Emma was pouting. Dubhán had the tip of his wand visible, pointed inconspicuously at the man's crotch.

"I'm not very good at being nice," he said and the truth must have been plainly clear, because the man just smiled and fell silent. Nothing bad came to pass while he sat there next to Dubhán, but that had been what Dubhán had expected, because neither party wanted him injured. They both wanted him whole and alive.

"Thank you Eric," Potter said as he returned, dismissing the man.

"Yes, sir," he said to Potter, then he turned to flash Dubhán a smile and reached out to ruffle his hair. "See ya around, Little Man."

Dubhán laughed in his wake. Potter eyed him seriously.

"You were being mean to him. He was nice," Emma said and Dubhán stopped just as suddenly as he started. His body was near Emma's suddenly - in her face - before he could stop himself.

"Don't go near him. Do you understand?" He said, a whisper just as potent as a scream. The little girl flinched across from him, but he had only focus for Emma. "Do you?"

"Why?" She asked, crossing her arms and looking at him with a sort of bemusement and _testing_ that made Dubhán's head pound and his heart hurt.

Potter was suddenly there too, crouched down between their two heads, listening.

"Just don't. He's not nice."

Potter's head swung around, searching for the man, but he was already gone - probably for good.

"He watched us while Daddy was gone," Emma said, always the defender it seemed to Dubhán.

"Yes, well - he would. But that doesn't make him nice."

"How would you know?"

"I just do."

Potter looked like he wanted to rush off, but Dubhán couldn't have that, so he snatched the man's arm up.

"Don't go," he said "He's gone already."

Potter's killing curse green eye were glued to his own and Dubhán watched, almost facinated, at the franticness bloomed in them. There was a darkening glint to their color that almost disturbed him.

Then he nodded.

"Emma, would you like to dance now?" Emma nearly jumped out of her chair and rushed into Potter's arms. One quick glance and they were off dancing. Potter stayed by the edge of the crowd - always within earshot and eyesight.

Dubhán spent the rest of the evening very carefully not looking at the little girls brilliant blue eyes and bright red hair.


	21. Watching

**Just a little update that I thought did best as a stand alone chapter. Hope you enjoy. **

He had almost forgotten how the Muggle world looked, smelled, and sounded. He observed them over a cup of plain black coffee as they passed by the little metal table, unaware of the danger that he presented.

_Sometimes I like to watch people. I'll sit real still and pretend I'm not really there, because me being there must change something and I wish I could see as they were without me there. _

He didn't think like the boy. He had never contemplated a time in which he wasn't present and powerful. He was a brilliant thinker, but somehow the idea of puzzling together a world in which he did not partake had never occurred to him. It was one of the stranger things the boy had ever said to him.

Today, he could almost imagine what the boy had meant. It was strange to be settled at the posh muggle cafe, surrounded by people, without one truly aware of the threat he would ordinarily present. The waiter had taken his order just like anyone else's - bid him a good afternoon and handed him the little paper cup with a kind smile. It had all been surreal in a strange way.

He was dressed nicely.

Not like he had been as a boy - threadbare, dirty, and calloused.

"Are you waiting for someone?" The waiter asked him, when he had motioned for a refill.

"Yes," he said, returning a smile that looked as genuine as the young waiters. "My Grandson."

Another smile. Hot coffee filled his cup. The young man withdrew into the store again. It was cold outside, but he isn't cold, of course. He wasn't some Muggle.

He shivered a bit at the thought reinforced that he was drinking something a muggle had prepared - sitting at one of their tables. But there was a purpose and he tried to reiterate that thought and reinforce that desire.

He was going to see his boy.

He spotted her first. He had expected as much. The boys magic would be drained from a night full of nervousness and children's magical auras were always less _distinct_ than adults. Her magic was like his, which made her about as easy a target in the crowd as her bright red hair.

She looked nothing like him; he logically had always deduced that she looked like whoever had given birth to her. Voldemort tried not to think too deeply on this topic, even though he had made himself aware of almost every detail after he had discovered his blood connection with the boy. He had been young, seeking to prove his power to his followers through the actions they themselves used. The only worthwhile event that had come from the rape was the boy.

Potter was beside her and there was a little girl in his arms. So this was the girl - he had seen pictures of her before, of course, but this was much different. Potter leaned over to his wife and whispered something. Suddenly her magic was snapping together and Voldemort could almost imagine what he had said. _My scar hurts_.

The boy had heard.

His eyes snapped open and his whole body went into a readiness that Voldemort had learned to be weary of, over the years.

_Imperius_

He had cast the spell so many times that he did not even need to verbalize it anymore. He let it reach out to the boy, just enough for him to turn in his direction, before he pulled it away. He didn't need Potter noticing.

Those green eyes were on his own, dark and shimmering and clever. But there was something in those eyes that did not belong so clearly visible: distrust.

Voldemort wondered why he didn't just sprint towards him - didn't he realize that Voldemort would protect him?

"Can we stop for something to drink?" He asked across the road, pausing and motioning to the cafe.

"Harry has a headache," she replied, still holding the child's hand in what looked to be a one-sided connection.

"I just want a drink," the boy said, but his eyes were still glued to him, and Voldemort knew the boy was too exhausted to be thinking covering his tracks.

Alexandra glanced at the cafe - as if to give in - when her eyes too met his.

He looked just like her boy.

"Now, Harry. Out of here, NOW."

He smiled at the boy. Then the boy was being rushed away, down an alley. Voldemort knew they were gone.

"Another day," he said into the night air, rising and leaving his cup on the table. It was all for the better. He intended for blood to be spilled when he got what belonged to him, back.


End file.
